


Azazel's Plan B - Part 1: Family

by eideann



Series: Azazel's Plan B [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abduction, Aftermath of Torture, Brother Feels, Captivity, Demons, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Impala Feels, John & Sam Angst, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective John Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Psychic Sam, S4xE3 In the Beginning, Scarification, Torture, Winchester Family - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:09:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 92,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7204055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eideann/pseuds/eideann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester’s life is finally perfect.  He’s got the perfect girlfriend, he’s been accepted to the perfect law school, and he hasn’t seen his brother in two years or his father in longer still.  He’s even managed to tame the automatic reactions drilled into him through years of fighting monsters and training with his father.  Hunting is a thing of his past, and he’s happy to leave it there.</p><p>In the correct order of things, Dean should now show up and fetch him to come search for their father, who has disappeared amid strange EVP recordings in Southern California.  Jessica should die on the ceiling as their mother did, fueling Sam’s need to get out on the road and hunt.  But . . . </p><p>A week after Halloween, when Sam comes home to prepare the perfect dinner during which to propose to Jessica, the perfect girlfriend, so he can start his perfect life, he finds his father waiting for him. Sam rejects John utterly until John tells him that Dean is missing. Suddenly the brother that Sam has been so glad <i>not</i> to see is just gone, and Sam finds he can’t deal with that hole in his life.  And those horrible stress dreams that he’s been having for months . . . those may not be as unreal as he'd thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, this is NOT a sequel to Left Turn of Fate. The two stories share a base premise, that Azazel decided to take action after meeting Dean in 1973, but they are not connected in any way. This is its own story and will have its own sequels. Worry not, the sequel to LTF is coming, but it won't be now.
> 
> It is also longer than the preview in Left Turn of Fate, so read past that to get to the story. FYI, the preview ended mid-paragraph, so be careful if you skim to find it. New stuff doesn't start in a new paragraph.

Sam balanced two bags of groceries in one arm, a gallon of milk dangling from those fingers, and snaked his key out of his front pocket.  After wrangling the door open, he stepped through and kicked it shut behind him, figuring he’d lock it in a minute.  He walked across the old rag rug that Jessica had brought from home and went into the kitchen to deposit the grocery bags on the counter.  He opened the fridge and put the milk inside, then started rifling through the bags to find the meat and veggies and other things that needed to be refrigerated.

He had to have everything perfect tonight.  In his sock drawer a small box awaited the right moment, and he thought the time had come.  Nervously contemplating his plans for the evening, he initially took his unease for bachelor jitters, but then he heard a noise coming from the living room.

Dropping into a crouch, he reached up and slipped a knife soundlessly from the wood block, then crept towards the kitchen door.  He could hear loud footsteps, almost as if the intruder was announcing himself.  “Who’s there?” he asked, reaching into his pocket with his free hand and pulling out his cell phone.  Silently flipping it open, he dialed three digits and hovered his thumb over the Send button.

“Sam?”  The familiar voice brought all of Sam’s buried rage to the forefront again.  He snapped the phone shut, dropped the knife to his side and stepped around the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room.  “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, glaring at his father.  Dad looked good, not nearly as old as he actually was, and all the anger and rage Sam had felt during their last confrontation came back in a rush, making it hard for him to keep his composure.  He locked it down and gazed coldly at his father.

“Nice to see you, too, Sammy,” John said, his eyes taking everything in, from the phone to the knife and Sam’s casual attire.  “Calling the cops, huh?  What if I’d been something they couldn’t handle?”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “It’s Sam, and strangely enough, I haven’t seen anything supernatural since I left.  Why are you here?”  Shoving the phone in his pocket, he crossed his arms, careful of the knife.

“We have to talk,” John replied.

“What happened to ‘if you leave, you’d better stay gone’?” Sam asked bitterly.  His father didn’t immediately respond.  Shaking his head, Sam went back into the kitchen, put the knife away and returned to his groceries.  “Look, Dad, I’ve got things to do.  We haven’t spoken in three years, why change the pattern now?”

“This is important,” John said.

“Right.”  Sam snorted.  “It’s important to you, therefore it must be the most earth shattering news of the century.  I’m busy, Dad.  Having my father show up out of the blue and break into my apartment was not in my plans for today.”

“I wanted to talk to you about that,” John said, and Sam looked at him dubiously.  “That lock is a joke.  You can’t trust your safety to something that chintzy.”

“It came with the apartment,” Sam replied shortly.

“Then you should have replaced it.”

“Whatever.  Is that the important thing you had to talk to me about?  Because if so, I’ve got –”

His father spoke abruptly, breaking into Sam’s rant.  “Dean is missing.”

Three words, simple, direct, and Sam felt them like a punch in the gut.  He turned around and stared at his Dad.  When he saw the calculation in those brown eyes, fury surged through him.  Manipulation, Dad’s stock in trade.  “You sure he’s not with some girl?” he asked scornfully.

“Do you really think I couldn’t find him if he was with a girl?” John demanded harshly.

“I really think you’re pissed that I didn’t come running back with my tail between my legs after six months,” Sam retorted, aware that he was riding the line between stupid and right.  With his father, that could be a narrow, blurry line, and Sam didn’t want to deal with this crap.  “And I really think you’d leap at anything to drag me back into that crappy life.”

“That’s not what this is about,” John growled.  “This is about your brother.  And I wouldn’t have come to you if I had any kind of a choice.”

“Right!” Sam snapped.  “Well, if you can’t find him, what makes you think I’ll be able to?”

“Finding him isn’t the problem,” John replied.  “I –”

“You just said he was missing,” Sam retorted.  “You can’t have it both ways.”  He put the corn flakes away in the cupboard, shutting the door with a little more force than necessary.  He started folding the paper grocery bags and putting them away for later use.  “Dean can take care of himself.  You saw to it that both your boys could take care of themselves, with the result that normal people find us weird and terrifying.  You have no idea how long it took me to mute my reactions to every sound and movement.”

“Sammy, I –”

“My name is Sam.”  Without waiting for any kind of a response, Sam went out into the living room.  He had two hours at most to render the apartment a romantic space, and his father’s presence wasn’t helping.  He filled Jessica’s 5-disk CD changer with Barry White, Enya and Celine Dion, and then started picking up the slight mess she always left behind her everywhere she went.  With Dean, he’d found that habit irritating, but somehow in Jess it was cute.  Endearing, even.  Dean . . . Sam turned around to find his father standing the doorway to the living room, watching him.  “How long has he been missing?” he asked.

“I’m not altogether certain,” John said, and Sam raised his eyebrows.  “He’s mostly been hunting on his own for about a year now, so I just realized over a matter of a couple of months that I should have heard from him.  I finally tracked the Impala down to an impound lot in Nebraska.  It’s been there since September 9th.”

“An impound lot?” Sam exclaimed.  It was now November 10th.  That was just more than two months.  Dean loved that car, he treated it like a member of the family.  “Dean would never leave the Impala behind.”

“Not only that, but there were no reports of contraband found in the car, no rumors, nothing, and the trunk was empty of weapons.”

“Maybe he found a car he liked better,” Sam said, but he knew it made no sense.

“Yeah, right,” John replied sarcastically, and Sam shrugged.  “When was the last time you heard from him?”

“Not since . . . I’m not sure.  It’s been months.”  Sam thought about it.  “I’ve moved twice since the last time I heard from him, so it’s got to be at least a year.”

John stared at him, blinking.  “Maybe you’re the wrong person to come to for this,” he said, his eyes boring into Sam’s.  “I need someone who can back me up, someone who gives enough of a damn to stop at nothing to get your brother back.”

Sam glowered at him.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

John shook his head.  “I know Dean wanted to keep in touch with you, so if you haven’t heard from him, it’s because you rejected him.”  Sam looked away, recalling the unreturned messages and the calls he’d let ring through to voicemail on his cell phone.  “If you don’t even want contact with your brother, I don’t know why I should think you’d want to help get him back.”

Sam’s head snapped around.  “No, don’t you put that off on me,” he snarled.  “I knew you’d try to use him to get to me, and you did, more than once.  Hell, you’re doing it now!”

“This is not about you hunting, Sammy!”  John took a deep breath and modulated his tone.  He looked away, and to Sam’s astonishment, he could see that his father was repressing emotion.  Unable to cope with that, Sam turned and continued cleaning.  John remained silent for several moments, and Sam carried the various things that Jess had left lying around and put them where they belonged.  He was just closing her desk drawer when he heard his father’s voice behind him.  “I know what killed your mother.”

Sam whirled and gaped at John.  As news it was stunning.  As a non sequitur it was infuriating.  He closed his mouth with a snap.  “You do?” he asked.  John nodded.  “So what?  I thought this was about Dean.”

“It’s a demon,” John said, seemingly ignoring Sam’s question.  “Azazel.  I don’t know much about yet, but every reference I’ve found to it – and there aren’t many – say it has yellow eyes.”

“I thought demon eyes were black,” Sam said, drawn in despite himself.  He shook his head.  “What’s this got to do with Dean?”

“The demon took Dean, Sammy,” John said.  Sam stared at him.  “I think I was getting too close, so it went after Dean.”

“How do you know?  You just said you didn’t even know when he disappeared.”

“There was sulfur in the trunk, sulfur in the foot wells, and I exorcised a demon last week.  He told me that Yellow Eyes has Dean.”

“Don’t demons lie, Dad?” Sam asked.

“Not when they’re being tortured,” John replied.  “Not when they make a deal to stop the torture.”

Sam swallowed a painful lump that had risen in his throat.  “Why would a demon kill Mom?  Why would he take Dean?  It makes no sense!”

“I know.”  Crossing his arms, John cleared his throat, but Sam wasn’t done.

“All you’ve got is a lack of phone calls, an empty car and a demon who might be lying,” Sam said.  “Did he even give you a direction?”

Sam could see his father taking a deep breath as if to calm himself.  “The car wasn’t entirely empty.”

“Sulfur, yeah.”

John had reached into his pocket.  “No, there was something else, in the floorboards of the back seat.”  He pulled out something in a plastic bag, something on a cord.

Sam’s eyes widened.  He walked forward and took the thing from his father’s hand, yanking when John didn’t immediately let go.  “He wouldn’t leave this behind either,” Sam said, examining the little amulet through the plastic.  The cord was snapped, and the dark red chunks that were also in the bag had clearly flaked off it because Sam could still see some attached to the face.  “Blood?” he asked, gulping.

His father nodded.

“And, as a note, I didn’t ask the demon if he knew where Dean was, I asked him if he knew where the yellow-eyed demon was.  He said that the ‘big guy,’ his words, not mine, was wasting his time torturing some penny ante hunter.”

Sam looked up from his scrutiny of Dean’s necklace.  “Torturing?”

“Yeah.  I asked him a few more questions, and it came clear real fast that it was Dean.”

“How?”

“Apparently, he also said that this penny ante hunter’s family had been tracking him for twenty years.”

Sam had heard enough.  He stuffed the amulet, plastic baggy and all, into his pocket and strode out of the room he and Jessica used as their joint office.  He went into his bedroom and stopped, staring.  His duffel sat open on the bed, already halfway packed.

“I put the weapons on the bottom,” John said behind him.  “What did your college friends think of them?”

“Most of them have never seen them,” Sam replied curtly, looking through the bag.  Good old Dad, taking control as always.  Sam grimaced.  He’d done a reasonable job.  Jeans, t-shirts, underwear, socks.  “What else did you dig into?” he demanded.

“I couldn’t figure out whose toiletries were whose.”  John tapped on the bathroom door.  “I mean, razors and deodorant are usually pretty obvious, but one toothbrush looks like another, and there’s nothing in here I recognize as shampoo.”  Unspoken was the criticism that Sam should always have a toiletries bag prepped and ready to go.

Ignoring his father, he shoved past him into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.  He pulled a zip bag out from under the sink and began loading it up with his stuff.  Dean.  Missing.  It was hard to take in.  Dean had always been a pillar of his life.  Dean being tortured by a demon . . .

He jerked the bathroom door open and found that his father was examining the closet.  “I think we’d better bring this suit, we might need to pose as FBI or something like that.”  He pulled out the suit that Sam had worn for his law school interview, still shrouded in the dry cleaners bag.

“Yeah, you look like law enforcement with that shaggy beard and –”  Sam broke off, shaking his head.  “I’ve got a few phone calls to make.”

“Phone calls?”

“If I’m going to be welcome back here again, I’m going to have to make a few excuses.”  Sam walked back into the office and dialed The Graduate’s number.  After three rings, Luis picked up.  “Can I talk to Marco?” Sam said.

The line went dead in that way that meant he was on hold, and a minute later, Marco picked up.  “Sam?  What’s up?”

“I’m going to have to . . . to quit, Marco,” Sam said.  He had no idea how soon he’d be back.  “I’ve got a family emergency, out of town, and I don’t know how long it’s going to take.”

“You got a family?” Marco asked, sounding faintly amused, but then his voice got serious.  “Sorry, buddy, I just never heard you talk about them.  Sure, take as much time as you need.  Call me when you’re back in town.”

“Thanks,” Sam said.  “I appreciate it.  Hey, I think Troy’s available tonight.”

“I got it, Sam, you take care of your thing.”

“Thanks.”  Sam hung up and thought hurriedly.  He wouldn’t have to do anything about school for another few weeks, so he was safe there.  All he had left that he really had to do was tell Jess.  He glanced at the clock.  She should be here any minute now.

“I’m going to go load your stuff in the truck,” John said.  “Back in a minute.”

Sam nodded.  “Sure, Dad.”  He turned to his desk and opened the drawer.  Underneath the minutiae of paperclips and pens he’d placed an inconspicuous box that had a couple thousand tucked away in it.  Some of the old habits died hard, and always being short of money while Dad was gone had made him something of a cash hoarder.  He pulled it out and tucked into his pocket.  He’d better give that to Jess to cover his rent for the next month or so.  He hoped she’d understand why he had to go, especially since he’d never talked about his family.

“Sam?”

Sam looked up at the familiar voice.  He hurried out into the living room.  “Jess, I’m glad you’re home.  I have to –”  He stopped, staring.  She was standing in the middle of the rug she’d inherited from her grandmother, looking upset.  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

She glowered at him.  “What did I do?” she demanded, her voice full of venom.  His jaw dropped.  “I thought I was the perfect little girlfriend, supportive, fuckable, everything a red-blooded American boy could want.  Where did I screw up?”

Sam shook his head, utterly appalled.  He took a step towards her.  “Jess, I don’t understand.  What are you –”

At that moment, his father opened the door.  “Sam, everything’s just about – don’t take another step!”

Sam froze in his tracks, not as a result of his father’s order, but because, at the sound of his father’s voice, Jessica’s eyes turned totally black, no whites, no irises, just shiny, jet black.  “I should have known,” she said, turning around to face John.  “Little Sammy’s far too stupid to have caught on to me.”

“Dad?” Sam exclaimed.

“She’s a demon, Sam,” he said, shutting and locking the door.

He wanted to deny it, but the proof was right in front of his eyes.  “How long?”

The demon turned on him.  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Sam took an involuntary step backwards.  He’d slept with that . . . that thing . . . unless, maybe it took her today?  He clung desperately to that impossible hope.

Sam saw his father squat down and slide something out from behind the plant stand by the door.  His journal.  Sam shook his head.  “Dad, what’s going on?”

“I think the yellow-eyed demon sent someone to keep watch on you,” John said.  “I’m going to exorcise her.  It won’t be pretty, so maybe you’d better go in the other room.”

Sam straightened his back.  “No.  If this has to happen, I am not walking away from it.”

John looked him in the eye, nodded once and then started.  “ _Exorcisamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_. . .”

* * *

As John recited the ritual for exorcism, he couldn’t help watching his son watching the girl he’d been living with writhe and growl and scream obscenities.  They were very lucky that no one came to check up and see what was going on, because the demon was by no means quiet in its departure.

Finally, John spoke the last words of the ritual.  “. . . _te rogamus, audi nos_.”  The girl dropped like a stone, and Sam started to surge forward, then hesitated.

“Is she . . . ?” Sam asked, looking down at her, his expression appalled.

“I don’t know,” John replied wearily, wondering how fast he could get Sammy packed and ready to go.  If this Jessica was dead, they’d have to hightail it because explaining could be pretty near impossible, and they had more important things to do than account for the death of some college girl Sam probably didn’t even know.

“Can I –”

“The demon’s gone,” John said, cutting in on Sam’s words.  “We need to be going.”

Sam lunged across the braided rug to the girl, checking her pulse and then scooping her up.  “We can’t leave yet,” he announced.

“Is she alive?” John asked.

“Yes.”

“Then so much the better.  We –”

“I am not leaving her to wake up alone after this, Dad,” Sam declared, and he strode off through the apartment towards the bedroom.

John had to admire the resolution, but he wished his son had a little better grasp of priorities.  At the moment, however, arguing would only make things worse.  He continued packing up the truck, checking through all of the rooms to make sure Sam hadn’t left anything questionable behind.  Then he started scrubbing up the Key of Solomon on the floor, not wanting someone to ask questions if Jessica decided to be a hysteric.

He grudged every second, but Sam was every bit as stubborn as Mary had ever been.  Dismissing the brief pain that thought gave him, he bent to scrubbing again.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Bobby looked up from his accounts when he heard a knock on the door.  Grabbing a weapon, he went cautiously to answer it.  It didn’t pay to trust to luck when it came to unexpected callers.  Hard to tell if it was friend or foe, or foe masquerading as friend.  A silver knife slipped up his sleeve and a flask of holy water in his pocket, he opened the front door a crack.  A total stranger stood on his porch wearing coveralls and carrying a clipboard.  “Can I help you?” Bobby asked.  The name Leon was stenciled on his front pocket.

“I got a car to deliver here,” Leon said.  He had dark hair and dark eyes, and looked completely ordinary.  Bobby opened the door a cautious few inches more.  “I hope you ain’t gonna junk her, though.  She’s a sweet ride.”

“Let me see this car,” Bobby said suspiciously.  He stepped out onto the porch, closing the door firmly behind him.

They walked down what used to be his front yard, Bobby keeping a wary eye on the stranger.  “Seriously, man, if you do plan to junk her, I’d just like a chance at buying her first.  I probably can’t afford her, but if she’s just going on the junk pile, there’s . . .”

Bobby lost track of what the man was saying after that.  He walked slowly up to the car on the back of the tow truck and put a hand on one rear wheel, wondering what in blazes it meant.  “No way in hell this car is being junked,” he said sharply.  He whirled, surprising Leon into a flinch.  “Where’s the paperwork?” he demanded.

“Right here.”  Leon handed over the clipboard.  “What is it?  You look like you seen a ghost.”

Bobby glanced down at it, and his jaw set as he read.  He looked up at Leon.  “Did you see the guy, this Elias Ashmole?” he asked.  What a 17th century alchemist was doing sending him a car was beyond him, but whatever.

“Nuh uh,” Leon said, shaking his head.  “So, she’s not being junked?”

“No, this car belongs to a friend of mine.”  Bobby shook his head, staring up at it.  “Put her down gentle, ‘kay?”

Looking a little flustered by Bobby’s manner, Leon got to work.  He lowered the car with great care while Bobby looked through the paperwork for any sign of what had happened.  There was nary a clue.  Just an order to deliver a black ‘67 Impala to Singer’s Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota.  Bobby watched Dean’s baby gently hit the ground, then signed the receipt on the clipboard.  Leon ripped off the part that was Bobby’s copy, gave him a single key, and took one last look at the car.  “She sure is a beauty,” he said.

“Thanks,” Bobby said, now anxious for the guy to be gone.  He glanced at the sky.  “Looks like there’s going to be snow soon.  I’d head out if I were you.”

Leon looked up at the cloudless sky.  “Snow?”

“See that stuff over there, kind of looks like mountains?”  Bobby pointed towards the horizon.

“Yeah.”

“Those are clouds, and they’ll come in fast.  Weatherman predicted storms all afternoon.”  He clapped an alarmed Leon on the back.  “Drive safe.”

That got rid of the driver fast.  Alone with the Impala, Bobby walked over to it and started looking it over, first a quick glance to see if there were any obvious clues.  Nothing in the front seat, nothing in the back.  The trunk, though, the trunk was the real shocker.  It was clean and completely mundane.  No sign whatsoever that anything illicit had ever rested there.  Not even a hint of spilled rock salt.

Bobby shook his head.  He distinctly remembered the first time he’d seen this trunk, and it had been anything but clean then.  He dug in his pocket for his cell phone and dialed Dean’s number.  He hadn’t seen the kid in months, but they kept in touch the way hunters did, sporadically.  The call went straight to voicemail, and Bobby heard that cocky voice instructing him to leave a message.  He shook his head and killed the phone.

He walked up to the front of the car.  Maybe it was some kind of sick joke, someone had found a perfect ‘67 Impala and sent it to him to see how he would react.  In the right mood, Dean might do it himself.  He opened the front passenger door, sat down so that he was still mostly outside the car, and opened the glove box.  It was empty apart from one item.  A single white envelope that looked pristine.  No dust, nothing to indicate that it had been there for longer than a day.

Bobby didn’t want to touch it.  He got up and started going over the car with extreme care.  It was astonishingly clean.  Not just the trunk, but the backseat, the front seat, the floorboards.  There wasn’t a potato chip back or a straw wrapper.  No stains, no dirt, nothing.

Then he noticed a green army man jammed into one of the ashtrays and his heart jolted in his chest.  That told him this wasn’t a sick joke even if it made him feel sick to his stomach.  Slowly, he walked back around the car to the front passenger seat and looked into the glove box.  Reaching in with a shaking hand, he pulled out the envelope.  Black ink, spiky handwriting that he recognized from seeing John write in his journal years and years agone.  It said _Bobby._

Inserting a finger under the flap, he tore it open gently.  There was one sheet of paper inside and a tiny bit of yellow powder.  Bobby’s heart started to beat faster.  He unfolded the note and braced himself for bad news.

 

 

> _Bobby,_
> 
> _Dean’s gone and the demon took him.  You can dance around me singing I told you so later, but not till after we get Dean back.  I’m heading to California to get Sammy.  He’s not safe if the demon is going after the kids now.  You were the only one I could think of who had any real way to store the car, so I’d appreciate you taking care of it for me._
> 
> _John_

 

Bobby took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.  Not just bad news, catastrophic news.  Dean was gone, taken by a demon.  Did that mean he was possessed?  Or abducted?  And if the latter, did John really think there was any chance at all of getting him back?  Bobby shook his head.  If he did, he was deluding himself.

But how like John to disregard the fact that Bobby both could and would help with something like this.  He could keep his shotgun in abeyance long enough to help John track his son down.  On the other hand, he had sent the sulfur.  That was one of the things that had led to their falling out in the first place.  John hadn’t wanted to believe in demons.  Even presented with clear proof, he’d refused to accept that they existed.  When Bobby had suggested that the smell of sulfur in Sammy’s nursery was a clear sign that a demon had killed Mary, John had been livid.  The fight that had followed was best not remembered, but John had stormed out with both his boys.  He’d come back later, but they’d both avoided the subject of demons.

Maybe John was asking for help indirectly.  Weird to think that sulfur from a demon might be seen as a peace offering.  But indirectly was about the only way John knew how to ask for anything.  He might order or demand, but not ask.  Or it could be a trap.  A demon could have taken John or Dean over and be playing some convoluted game.  Bobby looked at the note again, then shook his head.  He wasn’t stupid enough to think he was sufficiently important to any demon for them to play this kind of game with him.

He folded the letter back up, stuck it in the envelope, folded that in half and stuffed it into his pocket.  Closing the door and the glove box, he slid over to the driver’s side of the car and turned the engine over.  It roared to life, just like it was new.  Bobby felt heartsick.  Dean was a good kid, one of the best, and his father had never given him the credit or the attention he deserved.  When John had talked about protecting his sons, the one he’d talked about was Sam, not Dean.  Like Dean could take care of himself, or like he wasn’t important.  He threw the car into gear, his teeth grinding together.  If that’s what he’d thought, he’d learn now.

Bobby closed his eyes and forced himself back under control.  Dean wouldn’t thank him for ramming his car into a pile of debris.  Besides, he knew it wasn’t true, he knew how much John loved both those boys, but he had to be mad at someone, and John had certainly earned the position over the years they’d known each other.

Opening his eyes, he drove the car into the back of the lot.  Then he walked back to the house for a tarp, so he could cover it up.  With some effort, he resisted the twist his mind took, comparing the covering of the car to the covering of a body after death.

Before going back with the tarp, he pulled his phone out again and dialed.  This time he was calling John.  The phone rang three times and then it went to voicemail.  Bobby cursed and almost hung up again.  Mastering his emotions, he waited through John’s message and the beep before speaking.  “John, it’s Bobby.  The car’s here.  Think you could have called to warn me?  Call me when you get this message.”  He hung up the phone and grabbed the tarp.

* * *

Sam sat on the chair beside his bed.  His father had wanted to leave as soon as the exorcism was over, but Sam didn’t think he could just leave Jessica behind like that, without any explanation at all.  So here he’d sat for hours, fidgeting with the ridiculous talisman he’d given his brother for Christmas in 1991.  He’d rinsed it off in the bathroom sink, and a lace from one of his dress shoes now formed the string.

He glanced at the clock.  It was almost ten, now.  He didn’t know if the girl inside the body even knew him, but he couldn’t abandon her without making sure she was going to be all right.  Dad had gone off to the store to get some supplies while Sam waited for Jessica Moore to wake up, wondering if he’d ever even met her.

The first sign she was awake was a groan, but after a second, she sat up sharply.  Once upright, she clutched at her head and nearly slumped back, but Sam leapt forward to support her.  She barely seemed to notice him.

“It’s gone?” she murmured incredulously.  “It’s gone!”  Then she bent over her knees and began to cry.  Sam got up and got her a glass of water, some painkillers and a roll of toilet paper.

“Jessica?” he said hesitantly, and she looked up at him, eyes wide and streaming, mascara making black tracks down her cheeks.  “I don’t know . . . I just thought . . .”  He held out the toilet paper.  She took it and started wiping her eyes and struggling to control herself.  Sam didn’t know what to say or do.  He just stood there stupidly with a bottle of Tylenol in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

Finally, she looked up and stared at him.  “Sam, right?” she asked, her voice rough with tears, and Sam felt his heart sinking.  “You were in Renaissance history with me.”

Sam nodded.  He hooked the chair over and sat down.  “Is that all you remember?” he asked.

She shook her head, her shoulders shaking as she strove once more to control her tears.  “No, I . . . I was aware some of the time.  I just . . . it never thought of you by name.”  She looked down and realized that she was on the bed that they had shared – that he had shared with a demon possessing her body.  She scrambled off like it was on fire and stood shaking against the wall.  “Oh my God, it was real.  It was all real, and I . . . and you . . .”  She stared at him, and he wondered what she was thinking.  “I can’t stay here,” she said.  “I can’t . . . not with you . . .”

“I’m not staying,” Sam said, and she blinked at him.  “My brother is missing, I’m leaving with my dad to go find him.”

Jessica’s eyes went distant for a moment, then she shook her head.  “I think your brother is screwed,” she said, looking up at him.

“What?”  Sam took a step forward, but Jessica flinched back when he moved, so he stopped.  “What do you know about my brother?”

“That’s it,” she said.  “Honestly.  It knew something was going to happen to him, but not what.”  She seemed to notice the little gold medal she wore around her neck.  “What the hell is this?” she exclaimed, starting to yank it off.

Sam raised a hand, and she gave him a startled, frightened look.  “It’s an anti-possession amulet,” he said softly, trying not to alarm her any more than he already had.  “My dad put it on you.  It should keep whoever that was from coming back.”

Jessica looked down at the little thing, then clasped her hand around it.  “So, I’m guessing I shouldn’t take it off?”

“Not ever,” Sam said, nodding.  “You want some Tylenol?” he asked.

She nodded, and he held both the bottle and the glass out at arm’s length.  She took them, carefully not to touch him in any way.  “Well, even if you’re not staying, I can’t.  I can’t live here where it . . . where . . .”

“I get it,” Sam said hurriedly so as not to force her to finish the sentence.  “I don’t think I could either, and I didn’t –”  He broke off.  “Anyway, I . . .”  He turned to the dresser and pulled out the top drawer.  Dad had left the ring box where it was.  He picked it up, closing his hand around it.  “Look, you’re screwed financially with this whole deal, and I’m really not, because I’m not going to need an apartment for a while.”

“So?  It’s not . . . you didn’t do it on purpose.”

Sam nodded.  “Yeah, but –”  He broke off.  His dad had arrived in the room, and Jessica looked at him with a weird combination of alarm and gratitude.

“Thank you,” she said.  “Thank you for getting that thing out of me.”

John nodded brusquely, then turned to Sam.  “You ready to go?” he asked.

“Just a minute,” Sam said, quelling a brief surge of annoyance at his father’s high-handed manner.  He held out the ring box towards her.

“I am not going to marry you,” she said, her eyes widening.

“I’m not asking, but I don’t want the thing, and it’s worth almost a thousand.  Sell it, flush it, I don’t care.”  That put him in mind of something else.  He tossed the ring on the bed and dug in his pocket and pulled out the cash.  “Here, I saved it for . . . it doesn’t matter.  I don’t need it.”

She shook her head, not taking it.  “There is no way on God’s green earth that you don’t need that kind of money.”

Sam shrugged.  “Well, you need it more.  Between this and the ring, and my leaving, you ought to be able to break the lease on this place and find something else.”

“You’re leaving without your stuff?”

He glanced around at the crap he’d accumulated over the past three years.  He’d already grabbed the family photos and other mementos that meant anything to him.  “None of it matters.  Anything you don’t want, sell or give to Goodwill.”  His father was being surprisingly quiet during this.  Sam wondered why he didn’t weigh in with an opinion, or a demand for speed.

Jessica shook her head.  “If I do that, I’ll look like a total bitch.”

Sam glanced around again, this time seeing the ruins of the life he’d tried to build.  It was like the Jessica he’d known had died – or rather like she’d never existed.  Earlier he’d done everything he could to avoid burning his bridges, but now . . . Sam ground his teeth.  Let them burn.  “Tell people anything you want that won’t get me arrested if I come back to town.”  She stared at him blankly.  “If I’m a cheating bastard who abandoned you for some babe, leaving you to pay rent on this place by yourself – anyway, some story like that and no one will blame you for selling my stuff.”

Jessica blinked at him for a long moment, then took a deep breath.  “I’ll leave it when I move out,” she said decisively, but this time she took the money.  “Wait, if I use you as my excuse to break the lease, it will screw your credit.”  John snorted, and Sam glared at him.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam said, turning back to Jessica.  “Just do whatever you need to do to take care of yourself, and forget about me.  I’m not your problem.”  He looked down.  He figured they had to both still be in shock or they wouldn’t be anywhere near this calm.  He took a deep breath.  “My cell number is on the fridge.  Keep it if you want, and call me if you ever need anything.  Especially if something weird happens.  We . . . my family deals with that kind of crap.”

“I know,” she said, and he blinked at her.  She shrugged.  “Because the . . . demon knew, and it thought about it.”  She gulped, clearly near to tears again.  Sam didn’t know what to tell her.

“We’ve got to go,” John said, stepping forward out of the doorway.  Far from being annoyed with his father, he was almost grateful.  John gazed solemnly at Jessica.  “I’m sorry to leave you like this, Miss Moore, but we’ve really got to go.”  He held out his own card.  “And if you don’t feel comfortable calling Sammy for any reason, here’s my contact information.”

Eyes wide, she took it.  “Thanks,” she said, sounding lost.

Sam didn’t know what else to say.  After a moment of just standing there, staring, he turned and walked out of the room.  He could hear his father’s footsteps following him, but he didn’t turn until he’d left the apartment.  There he stepped aside and stopped.  He had no idea what his dad was driving these days.

John didn’t pause, he just kept going, and Sam followed him to an unfamiliar truck, a black GMC Sierra.  He swung into the cab and slammed the door shut.

“You okay, Sammy?” John asked.

“What do you think?” Sam growled.

Wisely, his father didn’t say anything else for a long time.  He just got onto Highway 101 and drove north.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam started awake when his father's phone rang for what had to be the seventh time in the last hour. He sat up from where he'd been slumping against the door and glowered at the phone. John dropped it on the seat between them. So far, he hadn't done more than pick it up, glance at the display, then drop it on the seat again. This was the third time it had woken Sam out of a sound sleep.

He reached out and grabbed it before it stopped ringing. John looked over as he did so. "Don't –"

Before he could even finish the statement, Sam flipped the phone open and lifted it to his ear. He didn't immediately speak because he could hear the person at the other end, yelling at what he clearly thought was an unanswered call. "Why don't you pick up your damned phone?"

"Because it's not my phone," Sam said mildly. "Hey, Uncle Bobby."

"Sam?" Bobby sounded startled. "You're with your dad?"

"I am. I take it you've heard that Dean's missing?"

"Your dad sent me his car without warning me first." Sam glanced over at his father with sympathy for Bobby. "Nearly gave me a heart attack. Where are you?"

"Actually, we're on I-80, heading towards Nevada."

"Sam!" John growled.

"I'm not actually sure where we're going, just that our general heading is north and east."

"So you're still in California," Bobby said. "I wasn't sure about the timeline exactly. His note said he was going to see you."

"What's he saying?" John demanded.

"He just wants to know where we are, Dad," Sam said. "Where are we going, anyway?"

His father glanced sideways at him. "South Dakota, actually. Bobby's the best I know of at scrying."

Sam blinked at him, then shook his head. "We're coming to you, I guess," he said.

"Really?" Bobby sounded startled. "What does he need?"

"Scrying, I guess."

"Son of a bitch!" Sam blinked at the anger in Bobby's voice. "You tell your father –"

Sam held out the phone to John. "Here, he wants to yell at you."

John took the phone and put it to his ear, listening for a second before he said, "Bobby, get over it. We can argue later, when Dean's safe." Sam could hear Bobby's voice, but not his words. "Abducted. By the demon who killed Mary." More loud squawking from Bobby. "I'll tell you everything I know when I get there, but we're just now crossing the state line into Nevada." This time Sam couldn't hear anything, but his father was silent for a moment, then said, "Yeah, if I can con Sammy into doing half the driving, we should be there in less than a day." He shook his head. "Not till we get there, Bobby. I am not talking about this over the phone." He hung up immediately after that, and Sam looked over.

"What don't you want to talk about over the phone?" he asked.

"Your mother," Dad said shortly.

"What about her?" Sam asked.

"How she died, what I think happened, any of it." John gave him a sidelong look. "How are you holding up?"

"Great," Sam said. "The girl I've been dating for two years turned out to be the figment of a demon's imagination, meanwhile, the actual girl probably feels like I've raped her repeatedly."

"Sam, you couldn't have known."

"You knew," Sam snapped, irritated by the condescension. "You knew within five minutes of coming to the apartment, I'd lay odds. What did you do to the floor in the front hall?"

"I put a devil's trap under the rug." John said. He shrugged. "And you would have known what she was, too, if you'd stuck with your family instead of running off to college."

Sam glared at him. "If I'd done that, I wouldn't have needed to know," he retorted. "I'd never have met Jessica."

"And she wouldn't have wound up with a demon inside her."

"You're saying it's my fault?" Sam exclaimed, astounded. "Stop the truck!"

"No, Sam, it's not your fault," his father growled over the top of Sam's demand to be let out. "It's just a fact. You couldn't have known, you couldn't have predicted it. But it happened because the demon was watching you."

Sam stared out the window of the truck, struggling to hold back the tears that were brimming in his eyes. Fury filled him, and he wanted to strike out at something. He smashed his fist into the dashboard, but it wasn't good enough. He did it again, and then John did pull over to the side of the road. Sam punched the dashboard a third time, and his knuckles started bleeding. A crack had developed in the plastic housing. The world was crumbling around him. Dean was gone. Jessica had never really existed. Stanford and his dreams there were history. He could feel it slipping through his fingers. And here he was with Dad. _Punch_. Again. _Punch._

"Okay, Sam, okay." He felt his father's hand on his shoulder, but not his left shoulder, where he should be if he was still behind the wheel. John stood on the ground outside the truck, his hand on Sam's right shoulder. "Come on, get out of the truck. I think you need a little space."

Sam jerked his shoulder out from his father's grasp and shoved him out of the way so he could jump down. They were in the Sierras, so the air was chill with the scent of snow. "What am I supposed to do now?" Sam demanded. "Punch the trees? Yell at you? Do you mind if I make dents in the side of your truck?"

"Do what you need to do," John said.

Sam stared at him and his fury surged. He turned around and did slam his fist into the side of the truck. He kept punching and punching till his father grabbed hold of him and held him hard. "Sam, you're hurting yourself."

Sam clutched his aching fist to his chest and realized that his tears had long since given way and were streaming down his face. "All I ever wanted was a normal life!" he snarled.

"That possibility was taken away from you when you were six months old," John said.

"Yes!" Sam jerked away, and his father let him go. "It was taken away! By you!"

John shook his head. "By the yellow-eyed demon. He killed your mother and . . ." He paused looking irresolute. "We have to get to Bobby's, Sam. We can talk more there. I don't want to have to tell things twice."

That brought Sam up cold. He stared at his father in shock. "You . . . you don't want to tell things . . . twice?" Sam shook his head, his outrage bursting out of him in an audible huff. "You've got things to tell me about Mom, but you want to wait until Bobby can hear about it, too?" He rolled his eyes. "Why am I even surprised?" He seriously considered grabbing his bag out of the back of the truck, but this wasn't about him or about Dad. It was about Dean. Stifling a curse, he grabbed the bar and swung himself back into the truck. "Let's go, Dad."

"Sammy –" John said, looking anxiously at him.

"My name is Sam," he retorted. "Give me a couple more hours of sleep, and I'll take over driving." He jerked the door shut, put his seat belt on and composed himself for sleep.

He both heard and felt his father get back into the truck, but he steadily ignored him until he finally fell back asleep.

* * *

Sam jerked awake when the engine turned off. He scrubbed at his face, trying to figure out where he was. "Figured we could do with some food," John said, and it all came back to him. Dean, Jess, the demon. He unhooked the seat belt and pulled the visor down to make sure his hair didn't look nutty.

They got out of the truck and Sam looked up at the restaurant. It looked like a fairly standard small town diner. Ruby Station. "Where are we?"

"Elko," John said.

They went inside and got seated. Neither of them spoke until the waitress had come and taken their orders. Sam both was and wasn't hungry, but he knew he should eat. He kept starting to fidget, then stopping himself. His father pulled out his journal and started writing, looking for all the world like there was nothing on his mind. Sam got up and grabbed a newspaper off a stack by the door. _Elko Daily Free Press_. He read through the articles, trying to be interested in something other than the man across from him. He wasn't going to be the one to break the silence.

Their waitress came back in due course with two meals. "Has anyone ever told you that you eat like a girl?" John asked.

"Not since the last time you did," Sam said. Between anger and iron control, his face felt like it was strapped on too tight. "So, when was the last time you saw Bobby?"

"Same time you did," John said.

"Okay, so not since the time he threatened you with his shotgun?" Sam asked.

"Nope." John pursed his lips. "Dean kept in touch with him, sort of kept us apprised of each other's activities."

"Sounds like Dean."

John nodded, looking away. Sam could tell that conversation was making him uneasy at the moment, so he let it lapse, returning his attention to the article concerning the election that had taken place the previous day. Mayors changing, county supervisors, all very fascinating, especially to a man whose life was in ruins. He forced himself to match his father's calm.

His mind was racing beneath the minimal attention required to absorb yet fail to retain the words he was reading. How had Dean come to be alone? The reason Dean had given for why he couldn't leave Dad was that one of John's sons had to stay with him. Somehow that hadn't happened, and Dad hadn't even noticed that Dean was missing for two months. That thought spurred guilt in him, which turned to anger. If Dad hadn't kept pushing Dean to try and get him back, Sam wouldn't have cut ties with him. A sneaky part of his mind told him that his motive then had been guilt at making Dean unhappy. He told it to shut up and stared down at the paper. Mayor Hadley had been in charge of Elko for fourteen years. That was fascinating.

"You done?"

Sam came to himself with a start and looked down at his plate. It was still half full, but the thought of eating any more made him feel sick. He glanced at his father's plate and saw that it was clean. "Yeah, I'm good." He stood up, grabbing the toast to go. As they headed back out to the truck, Sam went around to the driver's side. When they both started to pass in front of the grill, Sam said, "My turn to drive, right?"

"Right," John said. He backtracked and went to the passenger side, using his keys to open the door and unlocking the driver's door from the automatic controls. Sam got in and held his hand out for the keys. "Just a minute," John said, fiddling with the keys in his hands. "You're right, I'm not being fair."

Sam stared at him. "No."

"What?" His father looked startled. "I don't think it's a good idea for us to talk about what happened to your mother while you're driving."

Sam took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, well aware that he might be forfeiting this rare moment of paternal fairness. He shook his head. "No way, Dad. We are not having this conversation in front of a plate glass window full of customers." John glanced up and seemed to see the sense in this. "Give me the keys, I'll pull in at the next rest stop and we can talk there."

John dropped the keys into Sam's hand and sat back. "Go for it, Sam –" The word sounded cut off, like he'd forced himself not to add the childish ending that he and Dean had favored for all of Sam's life.

The next rest stop wasn't too far from Elko, and Sam pulled in. He drove through the parking lot and chose what he thought was the most inconspicuous parking space. Not so isolated that it looked like they were angling for that, but not close to anyone else. Fortunately, the lot wasn't crowded. He turned off the engine, left the keys in the ignition and sat back, crossing his arms.

For a couple of minutes, there was silence in the cab of the truck, and Sam wondered if he'd pushed his luck too far. If that moment back outside the restaurant had been a freak impulse that his father would now be able to resist. He glanced down at the keys and contemplated starting up again since it didn't look like John was going to say anything.

"Forgive me, Sam, this is hard," Dad said finally. "This . . . situation is forcing me to tell you some things that I'd hoped never to have to tell you. That I'd prayed never to have to . . ." He trailed off, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant.

Sam swallowed uneasily. Anger and apprehension filled him equally. "What is it?"

Dad leaned forward and stared at the floor, his hands clasped between his knees. "I told you that I know what killed your mother."

"Yeah," Sam said. "A yellow-eyed demon."

"His name is Azazel, and he wasn't there for your mother."

"No?" Sam asked when his father didn't immediately go on. "Why else would he have been there? He killed her, but he didn't do anything else."

"Actually, I think he did." John looked up, and the anxiety in his eyes was plain to see. "I think he did something to you."

Sam shook his head. "Did what? That's crazy! What would a demon want with some random kid?"

"I don't think you were random, Sam, and you're not the only one. I've found six other nursery fires in 1983 where a parent died on their child's six-month birthday, four moms, one dad and a stepmom. There's something going on here. I don't know what exactly, but I can feel it out there. The parents . . ." He paused, and looked at the roof of the truck cab, like he was trying to hold back tears by gravity. "Your mother was only killed because she got in the way. She got between the demon and you."

"Why are you so sure?" Sam asked.

"I've talked to a couple of the other fathers, one of whom I had to report to the police because he's been beating his son ever since." He shuddered. "I hope Max gets the help he needs because he's one screwed up kid."

"Like we aren't?" Sam asked.

"Not like that," John snapped. "I never laid a hand on you boys in anger, never once, and I didn't spend weeks on end drunk and abusive."

Sam stared at him. "No, you didn't do that." He just hadn't been there for weeks on end. When he was there, they'd had to follow his orders fast and perfectly, and when he was gone, they were alone and had to deal with whatever happened themselves.

"Anyway, I heard your mom yell your name, and that's what got me up and moving. Jim Miller had heard the same thing. His wife yelled his son's name, and he ran in to see her burning on the ceiling."

Sam's brows knit. "He told you that?"

"He was drunk," John said. "But he believes it happened. He didn't decide he was crazy. He just blamed his son for what happened to his wife."

"But you're doing the same thing right now," Sam said. "If the demon came there after me, it's my fault Mom died. I'm –"

John reached out and squeezed Sam's shoulder. "It's not your fault, Sammy," he said. "You were six months old." John shook his head. "I –"

"If he's after me, why'd he take Dean?" Sam demanded. "Isn't that kind of a flaw in your theory?"

"I think he took Dean to . . ." John paused. "I thought he took Dean to get to you, but now I'm not so sure."

Sam's eyes widened with outrage. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You haven't spoken to your brother in over a year. That doesn't exactly inspire me with confidence that you –"

Fury flashed to the explosion point and Sam couldn't take it. He shoved the truck door open and slammed out, stomping off across the parking lot. Maybe there'd be vending machines inside that he could take his spleen out on. He heard the truck door open behind him and quickened his pace.

"Sam!"

He ignored his father's shout and kept going. He was unbelievably pissed. How could his father even suggest something like that? That Sam wouldn't care about something happening to Dean? And he either believed it, or he was just saying it to piss Sam off. Either way was unforgivable under these circumstances.

There were two vending machines inside the rest stop, one for soda, one for snacks. Digging in his pocket, he slotted coins into the soda machine. Some kind of reflex must have taken him over, though, because when he looked up, he had two Cokes, a bag of Doritos and a bag of barbecue chips. On the occasions when he'd been alone with Dad, when Dean had been off doing his own solo hunts, he'd gotten this combination habitually when they'd reached their motel at the end of the day. Evidently some part of him remembered that.


	4. Chapter 4

John watched Sam stride away from the truck, well aware that he’d managed to put his foot firmly in his mouth . . . again.  He didn’t know why, but he and Sam had never seemed to communicate well.  It didn’t take much out of his younger son to send him over the edge into fury, and often it seemed to take even less from him to send Sam raging, even when he’d been much younger.  Closing his eyes, John leaned back against his seat for a moment.  He needed to get a handle on himself.  This wasn’t about him and Sam, this was about Dean.

He got out of the truck and walked across the parking lot in Sam’s wake.  Fortunately, they didn’t seem to have garnered much attention from the casual visitors to the rest stop.  He went inside and found Sam staring at the snacks he held in his hands.  “Sam?”

Sam looked up, his expression strangely puzzled, like he didn’t quite know why he was holding chips and soda.  “Doritos?” he asked, holding them out towards John.  Raising his eyebrows, John took the chips and the Coke Sammy offered him.  After a second, Sammy spoke again.  “I would do anything for Dean, Dad.  Anything.”

That declaration sparked against one of John’s grudges.  Dean had tried to keep contact, John knew that, and Sam had clearly rebuffed him till his brother had stopped trying.  The words were out of his mouth before he thought about them.  “Anything but call him back?” he asked sarcastically.

“Fuck you!” Sam snapped, and he turned to go back to the truck.  Feeling more than a little abashed, John followed along beside him without speaking.  He was supposed to be the grown up here, wasn’t he?  He really needed to keep a rein on his temper.  “Where were you, anyway?” Sam asked after a minute.

John blinked and glanced at him.  Sam’s voice was studiously neutral, so he, too, was trying to stay under control.  Clearing his throat, John tried to match the tone.  “What do you mean?”

“I asked Dean to come with me,” Sam said.  “I suggested he could get a job at a garage somewhere in the Bay area, that we could have a normal life, but he said no.  He said someone had to stay with you.”  He glowered over at John.  “So, why weren’t you with him?”

John shrugged.  “We followed different cases,” he said.  “He worked a lot of stuff by himself over the past few years.”

Sam climbed back into the driver’s seat and started the truck in smoldering silence.  John grimaced.  He could sense the anger emanating from Sam as they pulled back out onto the highway.  He wondered what was going on in his son’s mind.  Finally, Sam shook his head.  “He wouldn’t have left on his own,” he said.  “Not for long, which means you sent him off on those jobs.”

John really didn’t want to think about that.  “Sam –”

“Dean never liked being on his own,” Sam interjected.  “He didn’t want to be on his own, but he did everything you ever told him to.”  John looked away, wishing Sam would let up.  Sam’s voice gained intensity as he reached his point.  “That demon wouldn’t have gotten him if he’d been with you.”

It felt like a sledgehammer, Sam’s certainty that he could have stopped Azazel from taking Dean.  “Maybe, maybe not.  I’m not infallible.”

Sam leaned forward and squinted out the windshield.  “Is that a pig flying?” he asked snappishly.

John’s stomach roiled, but he attempted to keep his cool.  “Very funny.”

Sam shook his head, and his voice took on a somber, serious note.  “Dad, I would do anything for Dean.  Seriously.”

John let those words sink in for several long moments, trying to figure out why they alarmed him rather than reassuring him.  He could count on Sammy to . . . do anything for Dean?  How far did that ‘anything’ go?  He glanced at his son’s profile and found himself even more deeply disturbed.  Pretty far, he had a feeling.  Crises were different from everyday life for some people, and neither of his sons had ever held back anything in a crisis.  “You know,” he said, his voice seeming loud in the silence that had reigned, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, Sammy, but that’s not actually a good thing.”

“What?” Sam asked, clearly puzzled.

“That you would do anything for Dean,” John said, hoping Sammy would understand.  “There should be some things you wouldn’t do.”

Sam blinked out the windshield, his jaw setting, and John could see that his hope was in vain.  “Okay, earlier you were implying that you couldn’t really trust me to help Dean because I hadn’t spoken to him for a while, and now you’re not happy that I say I’ll do anything for him?  Make up your mind.”

Why did the young always see things in such black and white terms?  “There is a middle ground between not being willing to do anything for someone and being willing to do anything for them,” he said.  “You need to – look out!”

Sam had clearly seen it a second before John yelled because he jammed on the brakes just as John exclaimed.  A figure had appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the road.  Sam swerved onto the shoulder to avoid hitting him.  John had a confused impression of dark hair and a trench coat – and blazing blue eyes.

The loose gravel of the shoulder shot up in a rooster tail behind the truck, and John felt the wheels lose traction.  He wished he was driving – Sam had limited experience and probably none at all in defensive driving.  For a second John thought they were going to slide right off the road into a ravine, but then Sam managed to pull back onto the highway.

“Pull over,” John said.  “We need to find out what’s wrong with that –”  As Sam pulled off a little more sedately, the man was suddenly in front of them again, on the shoulder.  Sam jammed on the brakes again, and John leapt out of his side of the truck.  He ran around in front and stared in total disbelief.  The man had utterly vanished in the instant that had passed since Sam had braked the truck to a stop.  “What the hell!” he exclaimed as Sam came around the front end and stared at the empty shoulder.

“Where is he?” Sam asked.

John shook his head.  Now was not the time.  “Never mind.  Get back in the truck.”  Sam nodded wordlessly and started back towards the driver’s side.  “No,” John ordered, and his son stopped, giving him a startled look.  He held out his hand for the keys.  “I’m driving.”

Clearly stung, Sam stared at him.  “What?” he exclaimed.  “Dad, I can –”

“You did fine, Sammy,” John said urgently.  “I just have more experience with defensive driving than you.  Give me the keys.”

After a second, Sam reached into his pocket for the keys and handed them to his father.  Despite this, however, he turned towards the driver’s side again and it was only then that John realized that his son – the one who hadn’t been hunting in four years – had grabbed the shotgun out of its sheath under the driver’s seat.  When Sam saw him gazing at him, he gave his father a dark look, then hurried around the truck and got back in on the passenger side.  John hadn’t waited.  They were back on the road as soon as Sam’s door slammed shut.

“What the hell was that?” Sam asked, sounding a bit shaky.  “Did you see what I saw?  A young guy in a trench coat?”

John nodded.  “A demon,” he said without hesitation.  He frankly couldn’t imagine what else it could be, and coincidence didn’t rate high in his thinking.

“You think?”  Sam shook his head.  “Was he trying to crash us?”

“That’s my best guess at the moment,” John said.  “You okay?”

“I’m freaked out, but yeah, I’m fine.”

“Good.”  John spent a couple of minutes trying to figure out how to tell Sam what he thought.  Finally, he cleared his throat and glanced over at him.  “You handled yourself great back there,” he said.

Sam snorted.  “You know, Dad, the days when I longed for your approval have been gone for a while,” he said.

John shook his head.  “I call it like I see it, Sam.”  He caught himself before he added the second syllable, trying to give Sammy the name he preferred.  It wasn’t easy to change.  “For someone who hasn’t hunted in four years, you did good.”

“Wow, that’s laying it on with a trowel,” Sam said sarcastically.  “You’re going to embarrass me.”

John rolled his eyes.  “What do you want from me?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Dad,” Sam said.  “I know what I wanted, but I never got it.”  He sat seething with silent tension for a moment, then relaxed a little.  “It doesn’t matter.  The only thing that matters right now is Dean.”

“At least we can agree about that,” John replied, wanting to cut the subject short anyway.  A long discussion on their shortcomings as father and son wouldn’t get them anywhere.  After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, John turned on the radio.  Within seconds, Sam pulled out a little flat, black contraption and stuck some itty bitty earphones into his ears, no doubt listening to the stuff Dean called ‘emo rock,’ whatever that meant.

There weren’t any further exciting episodes for a while.  They hit some traffic in Salt Lake which slowed them up a bit, but after that they were going pretty good.  Fortunately no snow was falling, though this late in the year, the land on either side of the road was blanketed, especially as they got further into the mountains.  John’s phone rang when they were level with Park City, and Sam glanced over at him before picking it up.  “Bobby,” he announced.  John shrugged, fairly certain that Sam would do whatever he wanted no matter what he said.  Flipping the phone open, Sam answered it.  He was silent for a second after his greeting, then said, “Park City, Utah, but Dad’s going to do all the driving here on in because we had a little incident outside Elko that made him nervous about me driving.”  John could hear Bobby’s tone of voice, even if he couldn’t hear the words.  Bitching as always.  Sam shrugged.  “I know, but you know Dad.”  John rolled his eyes and ignored them.  After a moment, Sam sighed and held out the phone.  “He wants to talk to you.”

John eyed the phone with disfavor.  “Tell him I’m busy.”

“Dad, he can probably hear you.”

“I don’t care.  I –”

Sam fiddled with the phone for a second, then pressed a button.  “Bobby, you’re on speaker.  What’s up?”

John ground his teeth at Sam’s high-handed behavior, then Bobby’s irritated voice issued from his phone’s speakers.  “John, you cannot possibly drive that long without any sleep.  If I know you, you didn’t sleep a wink while Sam was driving.  Killing yourself on the way here will not help Dean.”

Setting his jaw to control his anger, John said, “We need to get to you, Bobby, and we’ve already had someone try to make Sam crash the truck.  I don’t want to risk it.”

“Give me what I need to start with the scrying, then, John.”  John shook his head.  If things were that simple, he wouldn’t even be going to South Dakota.  “I know you sent the car to me on Tuesday, but I don’t have a clue how long it was even in Beatrice.”

“Beatrice?” Sam asked.

John glanced over at him.  He must not have mentioned where he’d found the car.  “Beatrice, Nebraska,” he said in an undertone.  Raising his voice, he continued.  “The cops picked it up on September 9th.  The only reason they let me take it was because I still have a valid title.”

“Dean’s been missing that long?” Bobby exclaimed.  “What the hell makes you think he’s still alive?”

Sam’s brows knit and he gave John an anxious look, obviously waiting to hear the answer.

John didn’t want to go into detail about this right now.  “Because he is,” he said flatly.


	5. Chapter 5

“That isn’t an answer, John,” Boby said.  Sam gazed at his father curiously.  He’d already told Sam the answer, so why wasn’t he telling Bobby?

“I don’t want to explain over the phone, Bobby.”  Sam’s father glowered at the road.  “Our friends aren’t any less able to use cell phones and wiretaps than the FBI and the mafia.  It’s too risky.”

“Right,” Bobby said, and Sam wondered if he really agreed with what sounded to Sam like raging paranoia.  “Let Sam drive.  I’m sure he can handle it.”

“I got it, Bobby.  We should be there before midnight.”  He grabbed the phone from Sam’s hand and flipped it shut, ending the call.

He didn’t say anything, and after a couple of minutes, Sam cleared his throat.  “Homeland Security and al-Qaida.”

“What?”

“Not the FBI and the mafia, Dad.  Homeland Security and al-Qaida.”  John just stared at him silently for a few seconds, and Sam shook his head.  “Never mind.”  He studied his father’s face.  “When did you last sleep?”

“What difference does that make?”

“A big difference,” Sam said.  “When?”

John reached into the pocket of his denim jacket and pulled out a pill bottle, rattling it.  “I got it covered.”

Sam grabbed the bottle and looked at the label.  “Amphetamines?” he exclaimed.  “Dad, these are dangerous.”

“I know what I’m doing, Sammy.  It’s not like it’s the first time.”

“Really?”

“It’s not a big deal.  I only use them on hunts where I don’t dare fall asleep.”

“You are not driving on these.”

“I’ve done it before.”  John glanced sideways at him.  “What’s with you?  I thought all college students experimented.”

“You’re at least a generation out of date, Dad,” Sam said irritably.  “Dude, I don’t care what you’ve done before.  Pull over and let me drive while you get some sleep.”

“I don’t need any sleep.”

“Dad, we can’t do Dean any good if you crash us because you go into convulsions or something.  Pull over and get some rest.  I slept enough to make it for a while.”

“I’m fine, Sam.  Give me back the bottle.”

Sam glared at him, then rolled down the window.  He popped the cap off the bottle and dumped the pills overboard.  Then he closed the bottle and held it out towards his father, smiling tautly at him.

“Sam, that was dangerous!  Anyone could –”

“So some bunny or deer gets hyped up for a while.  It won’t kill them.  It might kill you.  And me.  And Dean.”

“What if a kid got ahold of them?” John demanded.

“A kid?” Sam repeated, glancing around at the miles of untenanted land.  “Out here.  Really?”  He rolled his eyes.  “Pull over and let me drive, Dad.  I can do it.”

After a couple more minutes, John let out an exasperated sigh.  “You’re just going to keep staring at me till I agree, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Sam said with a shrug.

“Next rest stop,” John said, and Sam sat back to wait.  They took the exit for the rest stop and Sam sat there, waiting for his dad to do whatever he was going to do.  John turned to him.  “Don’t you need a potty break?”

“I’m good.  I’m just waiting for the keys.”

His father stared at him.  “I am not an addict, Sammy.  I’m not waiting for you to turn your back so I can get my stash.”

“Yeah, you are,” Sam said, narrowing his eyes.  “Not because you’re addicted, but because you always want to get your way, and you figure I’ll let you drive if you’re already amped up.”

John rolled his eyes.  “Those were all I had.”

Sam shrugged.  “Why don’t we go over together?  I’m sure you could use a potty break as much as I can.”

For a long moment, they just stared at each other, then John got out of the truck, slamming the door.  Sam followed him, not sure what he thought about that victory.  He didn’t believe that his father was addicted to pills.  John was too much of a control freak to let something like that happen.  Nevertheless, he didn’t find it as satisfying to prevail over his father on something like this – at a time like this – as he would have thought.

They made their joint trip to the bathroom, washed their hands and headed back to the truck.  Sam held out his hand for the keys a moment before they reached it.  John glowered at him, but he gave the keys up.  They climbed in on opposite sides of the truck, and Sam started it up.  He backed out and got back on the road, heading north on Interstate-80.  They’d been on 80 ever since Sacramento, and they wouldn’t leave it till they were halfway through Wyoming.  Sam hoped his father would at least try to get some sleep, but he seemed a little too focused on Sam’s driving.

“Dean taught me to drive when I was ten,” he said abruptly.

“What?”  John turned to stare at him.  “He did what?”

“He taught me to drive when I was ten,” Sam repeated.  “He borrowed someone’s VW Bug and showed me how to drive.  Said I might need to know how someday if the two of you were ever hurt at once.”

“Borrowed?”

“I believe it was a euphemism for ‘stole,’ but I didn’t ask.  The point is, I’ve been driving for twelve years.  I’m good.”

John gave him a dubious look, but he finally settled himself on the seat and closed his eyes.  Sam thought he fell asleep before they hit Evanston, the first town in Wyoming heading east on 80.  He drove in silence, not needing the constant stimulation of music and not wanting to wake his father.  He drove through Green River and Rock Springs and all the wild land in between.  At Rawlins he took a sharp left off 80 onto US Highway 287, now headed north instead of northeast.  He was surprised he still remembered all the turn offs.  He’d never driven this route, but he’d been driven along it more than once, years and years ago.  When he saw signs for Casper, he remembered that it was time to get over.  Dad didn’t really wake up till Sam stopped for gas in Glenrock, about twenty-five miles past Casper.

John got out and headed into the station to use the restroom.  Sam filled the tank, using a credit card that had an unlikely, impossible name on it.  Credit card fraud, all part of the family business.  He pulled the gas can out of the back of the truck and filled it, too.  Dad came back and watched him.  “Where are we now?”

“Glenrock,” Sam said.

John glanced at his watch.  “Four p.m.  Making pretty good time, kid.  How you feeling?”  Sam shrugged.  “Ready for me to take my turn?”

Stretching, Sam said, “Sure, I guess.  I’m getting a little sleepy.”  He handed the keys over, finished filling the gas can and made his own trip to the bathroom.  He stopped inside and grabbed a couple of pre-made sandwiches, a bag of chips and several bottles of water and soda.  He headed back out to the truck and climbed in on the passenger side.  Dad was ready and raring to go, so he belted himself in and offered his father his choice of the goodies.  They both ate and drank.  Between Glenrock and Lusk, Sam fell asleep.

 

_Sam found himself standing in front of the altar of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, and he looked around uneasily.  It was decorated with flowers and buntings.  Jessica’s mother sat in the front row on the right side of the church, and Dad sat in the front row on the other side, both of them dressed in their best.  A buffet to his shoulder made him turn and he saw Dean standing beside him, looking trim and handsome in a tuxedo.  Sam realized that he was also wearing a tuxedo.  “You ready?” Dean asked._

_“Sure,” Sam said, though he wasn’t sure what he was ready for.  Then he heard the music start.  Mendelssohn’s Wedding March.  Dean started singing under his breath.  “Here comes the bride, all dressed in white.”_

_“Stop it!” Sam hissed.  Jessica’s best friend entered through the back door, and Sam realized that he was getting married.  That he’d actually gotten here.  His face felt like it was going to split in two from the smiling.  Patty winked at him before going to stand to the side of the altar.  Then everybody rose and Jessica entered the church on her father’s arm.  She looked beautiful, wearing a classic wedding dress in pure white.  She walked slowly up the aisle, a little girl Sam didn’t know throwing flowers at her feet._

_“She is totally out of your league, man,” Dean muttered, and Sam didn’t hit him even though he wanted to._

_Finally, Jessica reached him, and her father stepped away, returning to his wife’s side.  Sam and Jessica turned to face the altar, and Dr. Myers started the wedding service.  “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and of this assembly to see this man and this woman united in the bonds of holy matrimony.  If anyone present knows of any reason why these two should not be wed, speak now or forever –”_

_“I do,” Jessica said suddenly, and everyone turned to look at her in surprise._

_“You’re a little early,” Dean said, leaning around Sam with a faintly embarrassed grin at Jessica.  “Hang on a minute, honey.”  He turned towards the minister.  “Go on.  She’s just confused.”_

_Jessica’s eyes turned a glossy black, no whites, nothing, and then she threw her head back and seemed almost to vomit up loads of black smoke, and Sam remembered.  Jessica was possessed.  He turned to Dean, only to find himself in an entirely different location.  Dean lay naked on his back, bound to a table in a dark room.  Not dark, actually, it was brightly lit, but all the walls were black, with strange red sigils painted on them.  Blood dripped from the table to the floor.  A man Sam couldn’t see clearly stepped out of the darkness and leaned over Dean’s body with something glinting in his hand.  It was a knife.  He started slicing into Dean’s chest, and Dean started screaming._

 

“Sammy!  Wake up!”

Sam opened his eyes and sat up.  His heart was racing and he felt both sweaty and cold.  The truck wasn’t moving, and his father was leaning over him.  “What . . .”

“You were having a nightmare, I think.  What happened?”

Sam shook his head.  “I don’t . . . it was Dean.”  He felt sick at his stomach from what his imagination had conjured up.  “It wasn’t . . . good.”

“Don’t worry, Sammy, we’re going to get him back.”

“Why do you think he’s alive?” Sam asked.  “Bobby’s right.  From what you said, the demon’s had him for two months.  Why would you –”

“Because the demon I exorcised last Friday said so, and he told me everything he knew under the binding of a deal.”

“What did you have to promise him?”

“I promised him that I would stop torturing him.  The poor bastard he was in had long since died.  I can only hope he couldn’t feel anything.”

Sam gulped.  “What did he say?”

“I told you, Sammy.”

“But how recently – how can you be sure –”

“He said he’d left Azazel the previous day,” John said.  “That means Dean was still alive a week before I located his car.”

The dream still fresh in his mind, Sam took in a ragged breath.  “We have got to find him, Dad.  If he’s been with a demon for two months, God knows what could have been done to him.”

“I know, Sammy.  You okay?  We just left Murdo, so we’re not that far from Bobby’s.”

“Then why’d you stop?”

John grimaced.  “You screamed, Sammy.”

Sam rubbed his face and realized that he’d been crying.  Straightening himself, he scrubbed at his cheeks and stared out the windshield.  “Let’s go,” he said.

Without another word, his father started the truck.  Within the hour they were pulling up in front of the salvage yard.  Sam scanned the area for Dean’s car, but he didn’t see it.  John pulled up in front of the house and turned off the motor.  Bobby emerged from the front door like he’d been waiting for them.  Which he probably had, even if it was after eleven at night.

“John, Sam, it’s good to see you.  Wish it was under better circumstances.”

“If it was under better circumstances, you’d be threatening me with a shotgun,” John pointed out, and Bobby shrugged.

“Come inside, out of the cold, and tell me what the devil’s been going on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate doing this, but I'm feeling needy. Please review, even if you've got mean things to say.


	6. Chapter 6

Bobby led the way into the house where he had some hot food ready and waiting.  It felt kind of strange to be followed by the Winchesters, father and son.  He’d never really expected to see either man again, and certainly not together.  Sam had grown since the last time he’d seen him.  That wasn’t exactly shocking, Sam had been all of about nine then, and what was the kid now?  Past twenty for sure.  God, but Bobby felt old.

That Sam was still an adolescent was proven by the way he fell on the chili like a starving man.  John got himself some as well, but it was with considerably less urgency.  Bobby put out the cheese and the onions so they could doctor their bowls however they wanted.  Sam disdained the onions and piled the cheese high.

“Beer, anyone?”

“Sure.”  Both Winchesters spoke in unison, and then they looked uneasily at each other.  Great.  It wasn’t unity he was seeing, it was détente.  He should have guessed by the way Sammy kept doing the opposite of what his father wanted with the phone on their way here.  Bobby popped the tops off three bottles and handed them out, sitting down opposite John.  “So, what do we know, John?”

John paused in the middle of a bite and glanced at Sam, who shifted uncomfortably.  Bobby didn’t get the byplay, but he just waited with one of his last shreds of patience for John to answer the question.  “You ever hear of a demon named Azazel?” John asked after a second.

Bobby pursed his lips.  How like John to respond to a request for information with a request of his own.  “Name’s vaguely familiar.  Nothing concrete, for sure.  Why?”

“He’s the bastard that killed Mary, and he took Dean.”

“Why?  Why are you so sure, and why would he take Dean?”

“I’ve got to go hit the head,” Sam said, rising abruptly and leaving the room with haste.

“What was that about?” Bobby asked, watching the kid go.  “What’s up with you two?”

John shook his head.  “I found out some stuff that . . . the demon wasn’t after Mary, Bobby.  I think he did something to Sam.  I don’t know what, but all the evidence points that way.”

“What evidence?” Bobby demanded.  “That’s pretty far out, John.  How’d you go from not believing in demons to analyzing their motives?”  John reached into the bag he’d brought into the house and pulled out his journal.  It was thicker and more beat up, but it was still the same object.  He flipped it open and rifled through till he found what he was looking for and turned it to face Bobby.  It was a list of names and dates.  Families with single children, it looked like.  Husbands, wives, children.  “What am I looking at?” he asked, and then he noticed the last one.  Family: Winchester, Husband: John; Wife: Mary, d. 11/2/83; Child: Sam, b. 5/2/83.  He looked up into John’s face.  “Are you saying all these families had the same experience as you?

“Not exactly.”  John pointed to one labeled Weems where neither parent had a death date.  “This kid is twin to the one above him, Andy Gallagher.  They were adopted out.  Their biological mother is still alive.  Andy’s adoptive mom died six months to the day after he was born, but nothing happened to either of Ansen’s parents.”

“But you think –”

John grimaced.  “I think the demon was going around and messing with kids, and killing only when he got blocked.”  He shrugged, affecting a calm that Bobby knew he couldn’t possibly feel.  “Mary got in the way.”

“So you think Sam –”  John nodded, and Bobby whistled.  “What about Dean?”

“No.”  John shook his head.  “Here’s the other thing.  Tom Whitshire, I marked him down as having made a deal with a demon in 1973.”  Bobby’s brows went up, startled.  “I looked at it, and each of the others had something to wish for in 1973.”

“Mary?” Bobby asked.

John shrugged, looking away.  “There was a night, the night I proposed, actually.  I don’t remember much of it, and I’ve begun to wonder if there’s a reason.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mary’s parents were Samuel and Deanna Campbell,” John said, and Bobby’s jaw dropped.  Hunters from a family of hunters.  Bobby had a couple of Samuel’s father’s journals in his library.

“But the entire Campbell family was slaughtered,” Bobby exclaimed.  “The last generation of the direct line, wiped out.”

John stared at him.  “Slaughtered?” he repeated.

“Yeah.  Deanna was found in their home, her neck broken, Samuel was practically gutted.  The daughter disa –”  Realization dawned.  “She didn’t disappear.”

“She married me,” John said.  “What do you mean, gutted?  I thought they died in a car accident.”

“That was the tale that was told to the authorities, but general consensus among the hunting community was that they were killed by a demon.”

John stood up sharply and went to the window over the sink, staring out it.  “What are the odds?  Samuel and Deanna, killed by a demon.  Their daughter Mary, killed by a demon.  Her son Dean, kidnapped by a demon.”

“Tell me more about that night, John,” Bobby said.

John turned around and leaned against the sink.  “Samuel didn’t approve of me for his daughter.  That night . . . Mary and I were parked, and I proposed to her.  She started to say . . .”  John’s eyes went distant.  “She started to tell me that I didn’t know everything there was to know about her.  I told her I knew what I . . .”  He shook his head, and Bobby could see tears standing in his eyes.  “Then her father showed up and yanked the car door open.  He dragged Mary out, ordering me to stay away from her.  I followed, trying to reason with him, but he . . .”  He shrugged.  “That’s when things go fuzzy.  He attacked me, I know that, but I don’t know what happened after.  I have some vague memories, but nothing’s clear till the next day, or maybe even the day after.”

“There’s something I didn’t tell you about how Samuel died, John,” Bobby said, feeling more than a little disturbed by this whole situation.  “He was gutted, but the angle of the wounds was such that it was pretty clear he’d done it himself.”  John blinked at him, not speaking.  “The thought was, especially given the amount of sulfur found in his clothes, that he had been possessed, that he’d killed Deanna, and no one was sure what had happened to Mary.”

“Are you suggesting that what attacked me wasn’t Mary’s father?” John asked.

“I don’t know what I’m suggesting, but from everything I hear, Samuel Campbell was too cautious to have attacked a civilian like you.”

“Even over his daughter?” John asked.

“Were you attacking her?”

“No!”

“Were you hurting her?”

“I proposed to her.”

“Then yeah.  He wouldn’t have attacked you.  Discretion is the first rule of hunting.  Samuel would have learned it at his daddy’s knee.”

“Son of a bitch,” John said, looking stunned.

“So, Sam and Dean are Campbells.  That makes a hell of a lot of –”

“They’re Winchesters,” John protested.

“You don’t get it, John.  The Campbells are practically hunter royalty.”  John just stared at him blankly.  Bobby got up and went into his library.  He pulled out two books, then walked back into the kitchen and dropped them on the table.  “This one’s a history of the Campbell family.  Nine confirmed generations of hunters.”  John gazed down at it dumbly.  “And this is Jeremiah Campbell’s journal from 1911 to 1917.  Mary’s grandfather.  And I understand there’s a journal of one Seamus Campbell, from the 1600s.  It’s in a private collection, somewhere in Europe.”

“I didn’t know,” John said.  “Mary never said anything.”

“Her uncle Brian died twenty years back, supposedly killed by . . . demons.”  Bobby closed his mouth and stared blindly as he realized the significance of that.

“Demons killed Mary’s uncle, too?” John demanded.  “In the papers it said –”

“What did it say happened to Mary in the papers?” Bobby asked, and John broke off.  “What the hell does it all mean?”

“None of the other families were hunters,” John said.  “Maybe the demon figured that if he killed off all the hunters in the family, there wouldn’t be anyone to go after him.”

“Well, that backfired,” Bobby remarked dryly, and John snorted.  “Okay, well, what do I need to know to get scrying?  I don’t suppose you’ve got anything of Dean’s on you?”

“You’ve got the car, Bobby,” John said disgustedly.  “That’s practically a part of Dean.”

Bobby blinked.  “Right.”  He shook his head.  That was stupid on his part.  “Let me grab my stuff and then let’s go.”

“My coat’s by the door, and I’d better see where –”  John broke off, and Bobby backed up into the kitchen again to see that John had stopped in the door to the hall.  “Sam,” John said, “how long have you been there?”

“Mom was a hunter?” Sam’s voice asked from the hall.  Bobby pursed his lips in a silent whistle and went to gather his stuff.  He didn’t need to witness that encounter.

* * *

Sam glared at his father, waiting for some kind of response.

“Yes, Sam, but I’ve only found that out in the last year, so I never had a chance to tell you.”

“You could have told me when you told me it was my fault the demon killed Mom and took Dean.”

“I told you it wasn’t your fault, Sam,” his father retorted.  “You can’t be blamed for something you didn’t do and that you didn’t do anything to cause.”

“I was born.”

“And I don’t recall anyone asking you about that.  Did you have a choice that I don’t know about?  Don’t wallow in guilt, Sammy.  You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But the demon may have done something to me.”

“And to other kids.  I told you that.  You’re not the only one.”

“Do you think that helps?” Sam demanded.  “Knowing that there are other kids whose lives got screwed because of this demon?  Knowing that at least none of the others wound up on the run from town to town, never staying anywhere long enough to make friends or get known as anything more than the new kid?”

“Max Miller’s father beats him daily because he blames him for his mother’s death,” John said.  “Brianna Whitshire’s father died, and her mother dated a series of crappy guys afterwards, at least three of whom molested her.  Life sucks all over, Sammy.  You and Dean had it rough, but you both came out healthy, responsible adults.  I don’t think I did too badly.”

There was a loud thump from the next room, and they both looked towards the kitchen table where Bobby had just dropped a bag that, from the sound of it, was pretty damned heavy.  “You two done yet, or do you need a little more time for mutual self-flagellation?”

Sam stared at him.  “We’re good, Uncle Bobby,” he said.  “Let me grab my jacket.”  He grabbed both jackets and tossed his father’s to him before pushing past him into the kitchen.  He shouldered the heavy bag.  “Where to?”

“I parked the Impala out in the back lot,” Bobby said.  “Covered it with a tarp.  Come on.  Let’s see what we can find out.”

Sam found himself walking beside his father as they headed through the aisles of metallic debris.  He glanced aside.  “I think I understand now why you two fought so much.”

John raised an eyebrow at him and shrugged.  “That much insight can be a real pain in the ass . . . when it’s directed at you.”  Sam gazed at Bobby’s back and wondered why he’d never noticed that about him before.

Dean’s car was obvious amongst all the junk because it was the only thing that was covered against the elements.  Bobby dumped his burdens on the ground and went to start untying the rope that held the tarp in place.  Sam put his bag down and went to help.  Between the three of them, they uncovered the car and Sam stared at it in dismay.  His hand went up to his chest where he’d hung Dean’s pendant after cleaning it.  While wearing that necklace and staring at the Impala, it was impossible to believe that something disastrous hadn’t happened to Dean.  He touched the car tentatively, like he wanted to be sure it was real.

“Okay, let me see,” Bobby said.  He dug in the bag Sam had carried and pulled out a large cloth.  He spread it out over the Impala’s hood and began setting up candles and stuff on it.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Sam exclaimed.  “On Dean’s car?”

Bobby turned to him.  “Well, I’m supposed to put the target’s possession on the cloth, but I can’t exactly do that, now can I?”

“Yeah, but . . . Dean’s car!  He’ll have a fit if anything happens to it, and he’ll kill me!”

His father and Bobby exchanged a startled look.  “I’m doing it, Sam,” Bobby said.  “He’ll kill me.”

“Right,” Sam said, and Bobby continued.  Sam felt very weird about this.  He wasn’t altogether sure Dean would approve.  On the other hand, Dean wouldn’t get to disapprove if they didn’t find him.

“How long is this going to take?” John asked.

“Probably most of the night.  Which one of you drove last?”

“Me,” John said.

“Then why don’t you go get some sleep and leave Sammy here to watch over me.”

John glanced at Sam.  “Go on, Dad,” Sam said.  “I’m good.”

“You know where everything is,” Bobby said.

“Yeah.”  It took John a minute longer, but he finally gave in.

Sam watched his father walk back towards the house and looked around for a spot to sit down.  He grabbed the tarp and folded it before setting it down on top of a bale of twisted metal.

“So, how are you doing, Sam?” Bobby asked after a few minutes of silent set up.

“Peachy,” Sam said.  “I assume Dad told you everything.”

“I think so,” Bobby said.  “Your brother’s missing, the demon who took him is the one who killed your mom, he was afraid you were in danger so he went and fetched you.  Are you missing classes for this?”

Sam blinked at him, his heart lurching in his chest.  “He didn’t tell you everything,” he said, his voice breaking partway through.

Bobby paused and turned around, a black candle in one hand, a white one in the other.  “What is it, boy?” he asked, his eyes wide.

“Did you know I had a girlfriend?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Bobby said.  “I know.  Dean told me.”  Sam’s eyebrows went up.  “He said she was a real hottie, and that you two were, let me get this right, ‘disgustingly cute together.’”

“Wait, no, Dean’s never seen us together,” Sam protested.

“Sure he has,” Bobby said, and Sam stared at him.  “It’s Dean, Sam.  He checked up on you from time to time.  Kept an eye on you without interfering.”

It was like a blow to the head.  Dean – the brother he’d ignored all this time – had been keeping up with his life from a distance, and he’d never known.  Dean cared enough to stay away when Sam had made his wishes known, but he’d also cared enough not to lose track.  And he’d thought they were cute.

“She was a demon,” Sam said, and Bobby’s eyes widened.  “I’ve been seeing her for two years, and I . . .”  He shook his head.  “I loved her, and I thought she loved me.”

“Son of a bitch,” Bobby said.  “That sucks, kid.”

“Jessica Moore, the real person the demon possessed, she barely knew me, so for the past two years, I’ve been sleeping with a demon.”  Sam felt tears coming to his eyes again.  “Hell, I almost asked a demon to marry me.”

Bobby put the candles down and came over to Sam, putting his hands on his shoulders.  “I’m sorry, Sam.  I know how that feels.  I have no idea how long my wife was possessed before she started trying to kill me.”

Sam stared at him.  Never once had he ever wondered how Bobby had gotten into hunting.  “Your wife was possessed?  You were married?”

“Yup,” Bobby said.  “I started noticing the smell of sulfur, and strange things were happening around the neighborhood, but it wasn’t till she tried to stab me in the back that I realized something was wrong with her.”

The smell of sulfur had clung to Jessica like a perfume, sometimes, but she’d been a chemistry student.  He’d assumed that was why.  “I keep thinking about how much I’ll miss her, and then I remember that nothing that happened was real.  It was all what a demon thought a ‘red-blooded American boy’ would like.”

“I wish there was something I could do for you, Sam.”

“I wish there was something I could do for her,” Sam replied.  “I mean, she just had two years of her life taken away from her, a relationship that she had and that ended that she’s going to have to explain to her family and friends.  God knows what she did with her friends and family that she doesn’t remember.  And meanwhile, she was aware some of the time, and probably felt like I raped her every time I had sex with . . . it.”  He shuddered, feeling sick at the thought.

“Sam, you can’t let that eat you up,” Bobby exclaimed.  “You didn’t know, it’s not your fault.”

“I’m still going to feature in her nightmares forever,” Sam said.

“She’s alive.  That’s more than be said for most people that demons possess.”

“Your wife?”

“I stabbed her a dozen times before the demon abandoned her.  Only the evidence that she’d been killing children saved me from winding up on death row.  I told the cops the God’s honest truth, and I wound up in an institution for six months.  They figured I’d found out about her killing spree, and she’d attacked me.  That having to kill my wife had unhinged me.  As soon as I got out, I started researching what could have gone wrong with her, but I kept that strictly to myself.  Eventually, I met other hunters and really got started.”

Sam gulped.  “I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t, kid.  Most hunters never talk about what made them start up, but you can bet that a family member or two got screwed one way or another.”  He shook his head.  “Anyway, back to locating your brother.”

Sam nodded and watched Bobby get to work.  Once things were laid out, he spoke some kind of an incantation, swinging a pendulum over a map that he’d put on top of the cloth on Dean’s car.  The corners were weighed down with lit candles.  Hours passed, and Sam watched the pendulum.  It didn’t seem to be homing in on any particular location.  Then, suddenly, when it was in the southeast quadrant of the map, a spark of electricity shot up from the map into the pendulum.  Sam leapt to his feet, but the charge ran up the chain faster that he could move or speak.  Bobby let out a hoarse cry and fell like a stone.


	7. Chapter 7

Pamela tucked the key in her pocket and eased the door open.  Bobby wasn’t expecting her, so she’d better let him know she was coming.  She didn’t want a gut full of rock salt.  A face full of holy water wouldn’t be nearly as big a deal, but she knew Bobby.  He tended to shoot first and ask questions later.  “Bobby?” she called.  “Bobby!  I brought your favorite, pork rinds and –”

She froze, the six-pack of Heineken held aloft, staring at the stranger with the shotgun.  “Hello,” she said with a bright, anxious grin.  “I’m Pamela.  You?”

“John.”  He looked a little younger than Bobby, with dark hair and eyes.  “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d surprise Bobby,” she said.  “You?”

“At half past midnight?” the man asked.

“Bobby keeps odd hours.  Mind if I put the beer down?  It’s getting a little heavy.”  He shrugged, but he didn’t lower the shotgun.  Pamela put the beer and the pork rinds down on the hall table.  “So, you must be one of Bobby’s friends.  I’d recognize the paranoid gleam in your eyes anywhere.”

“I must be.  Look, Pamela, I want to trust you, but circumstances are such that I really can’t.”

“Where’s Bobby?  He’ll vouch for me.”

“He’s busy,” John said.  John.  Pamela thought for a moment, then tilted her head.  “John Winchester?” she asked.

She’d thought he had the shotgun pointed at her before, but when he raised it ever so slightly further and his eyes narrowed to cold slits, she knew she’d been wrong.  Now he was ready to kill her where she stood, and she didn’t know that he had rock salt in his load.  “How do you know my name?”

“You’re infamous in the community, John,” she said.  “Tall, dark, brooding man, good looking but paranoid as hell, dragging a couple of boys around with you, teaching them to be hunters, both also good looking.”  She chuckled.  “Good looking comes up a lot about you three.  I can see why.”  Unlike most men, he didn’t seem to be softened by her compliments, or the suggestive tone in her voice.

“You’re a hunter?” he said, clearly not believing it of her.

“Hell no!” she retorted.  “I’m sane.”

“But you hang around with Bobby?” he asked.

She shrugged.  “I’m psychic.”  His eyes widened, a hopeful light entering them, and she sensed possible stupidity.  “Look, you aren’t going to ask me for the Lotto numbers, are you, because it’s way too much work for –”

“I couldn’t care less about Lotto,” John snapped, cutting her off.  He lowered the gun to his side and took a step forward, a desperate, almost vulnerable look coming into his eyes.  “Maybe you could help me find my son.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, but it was clearly a big deal.  A rear door slammed open and they both turned at the sound of running footsteps.  “Dad!  Something’s happened to Bobby.”  A tall young man – a boy, really – came running in, a frantic look on his face.  “He collapsed.  I don’t think the spell’s supposed to do that!”

Keeping the gun, John took off running towards the back, following the boy out.  Pamela ran along behind them.  She didn’t know them, and she wasn’t trusting Bobby’s safety to them alone.  The three of them ran in an uneven line towards the back of the property, down lanes made of junk, till they got to a classic car with a whole scrying ritual set out on the hood.  It was, frankly, bizarre.  Bobby lay on the ground, on a tarp, and his right hand looked slightly burned.

“Do we dare move him?” the boy asked.

Pamela extended her senses to see what she could feel.  “Magic’s done.  Get him off the ground and inside.”

John didn’t waste any time.  He grabbed Bobby under the arms and his son grabbed him by the legs.  Pamela hurried forward and blew out the candles before following them back to the house.  John guided his son to the old living room, where there was still a couch.  It was currently set up as a bed, so they just deposited Bobby and the boy started pulling off Bobby’s shoes.  “I don’t understand what happened,” he said.  “He was dowsing, and then . . . who’s she?”  He looked at Pamela with wide eyes.

“Apparently, she’s a friend of Bobby’s,” John said.  “Pamela, meet my son Sam.  Sam, Pamela.”

“Hi,” he said absently.  “Dad, it was weird.  It was like an electric charge shot up from the map into the pendulum.  I saw it happen, but Bobby screamed and went down before I could say anything.”

John looked up and he grabbed Sam by the arms.  “Where on the map did it come from?  Did you see?”

“Southeast is all I know, Dad,” Sam said.  “Unless there’s a mark on the map, I couldn’t say more than that.”  Sam stared at Bobby with his eyebrows knit together.  His father, however, seemed to have dismissed Bobby from his attention.  He strode out of the house, leaving Pamela alone with his son and an unconscious Bobby.  “What should we –”  Sam looked up and realized that his father was gone.  “Where’d he go?”

“To get the map, I’d imagine,” Pamela said.  “Get him warm.  I’ll get some coffee and some smelling salts.”  Sam nodded and started covering Bobby up with the blankets.  Pamela hurried into the kitchen.  Fortunately there was already a full pot on the coffeemaker, brewed strong.  She dug in the drawer and found the smelling salts and went back to the living room.  Breaking one of the capsules under Bobby’s nose, she sat back and waited to see if it would work.

He twitched and coughed.  “What the hell was that for?” he demanded weakly.

“Bobby,” Sam exclaimed.  “You okay?”

“Sam?”  Bobby’s eyes opened and he looked around.  “Son of a . . . the scrying spell.  What happened?”

“Looks like whoever you’re looking doesn’t want you to find him,” Pamela said.

“If that’s the case, then he miscalculated,” John announced, coming into the room.  He had the map in his hands, and he spread it out on the floor in front of the sofa.  Bobby leaned over to peer down at it, and Sam went down on his knees.

“Graysville, Alabama?” Sam said.  He looked up at his father.  “Do you think that’s where Dean is?”

“It’s our first lead, we’ve got to follow it.”

“So, I guess you won’t be needing me,” Pamela said.

“Bobby, do you know this chick?” John demanded, tilting his head towards her.

“Yeah,” Bobby said.  He looked up at her, and she could see the question forming in his eyes, but he didn’t get a chance to ask it.

“Good.  We do need you, Pamela, you can stay here and look out for him.  Sam, get your stuff.”

“You are not leaving me behind!” Bobby announced angrily, starting to get up.  Pamela saw how shaky he was and pushed him back.

“We don’t have time to wait, Bobby.  We’re leaving now.”

“I can get better on the seat of your truck as fast as I can here,” Bobby grumbled.

“You were electrocuted,” Sam exclaimed.  “You need to go to the hospital!”

“I’m fine,” Bobby protested.  “It wasn’t that big a shock.  What knocked me flat was . . .”  He shook his head, and Pamela gazed worriedly at him.  He was deeply unsettled, and she wasn’t used to seeing that in him.  “It was angry, and it wasn’t the electricity.”

“Sam, get your stuff,” John ordered again, and Sam lifted his arms with two bags already in hand.  “Okay, good.”  He rounded on Pamela.  “Are you really a psychic?” he demanded.

“Yeah,” Pamela replied.

“Good.  That car out there belongs to my son Dean.  He’s been taken by a demon.  Go out there and see what you can find out about what happened.”

“Now wait just a minute,” she growled.  “I –”

“Please!” Sam interjected, glancing at his father reprovingly.  He turned towards Pamela.  “Please, will you go find out what you can?”

Pamela was treated to the biggest, brownest puppy dog eyes she’d ever seen.  The plea in them was impossible to resist.  “Crap,” she muttered.  “Okay, okay, I’ll see what I can find out when I’ve got Bobby situated.”

“That’s all we can ask,” Sam said.  He turned to Bobby and said, “Thanks Bobby.”

“John, I want to come.”

“No, Bobby.  You’re not up to it, and besides, if we need last minute research, you’ll be on the spot to do it for us, way better than if you were on the road with us.”

Bobby glowered up at him, but he stopped arguing.  “Go on, then, get out on the road.  That’s going to be a hell of a drive, though.  You’ll have to get some rest sometime soon.”

“We can swap it back and forth,” John said.  “It’s Sam’s turn.”  He grabbed the map.  “Come on, let’s go, Sammy.”

Sam gave Bobby one last look, then followed his father out of the house.  Pamela sank to the floor and looked up at Bobby.  “You sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” she asked.

“I’ve had worse shocks from home repairs,” Bobby said.  “Look, I’m betting John just left everything where it was and took the map.  Could you gather that shit up and then do your psychic thing?”

She blinked at him.  “Sure.”  Well, this certainly wasn’t going to be the fun weekend she’d had planned.

* * *

Sam pulled off I-29 in Sioux City, Iowa and found a truck stop that had a restaurant attached.  He poked his father.  “Let’s get some food.”

John looked up and glanced over.  “Where are we?”

“Iowa,” Sam said.  “We’ve been on the road for about five hours.  I figured you could go grab us some food.  Get me some kind of egg and sausage burrito thing, would you, and about a gallon of coffee.”

“Sure.”  Dad got out of the truck and made his way across the plaza.  Sam filled up on gas, then cleaned the windshield.  He devoutly hoped they weren’t going to have any snow.  He had no practice at all at driving in snow.  He was getting a little bit tired, but he wasn’t sure Dad had had nearly enough sleep.

Once he was done, he pulled the truck into a parking spot to make space for someone else to get gas and went inside to find out what was keeping his father.  They met in the doorway, and Sam turned back to walk with him.  “My turn, Sammy,” John said.

“Dad, call me Sam.  Sammy is a pudgy twelve-year-old.”

“You were never pudgy.”  Sam rolled his eyes and resigned himself to being called Sammy for the rest of time by his father.  He supposed that was as normal as it got.  Parents using annoying nicknames forever and ever seemed to be universal.  “There’s snow coming up in the next stretch,” John said.  “You ever driven in snow?”

“Not since I was like sixteen,” Sam said.  “I figured I’d eat and then catch some Zs.”

“Sounds good.”

The burrito wasn’t half bad.  Sam downed it with a bottle of water, then bunched up a jacket and used it for a pillow against the window.  “Don’t drive for more than four or five hours, Dad,” he said.  “I think we’d both be better off if we took breaks after about that long.”

“Sure, Sammy.  Go to sleep.”

Sam closed his eyes.

 

_A battered and bare figure lay still on a mattress that filled the bottom of a stainless steel cage about seven feet long by three feet wide, and just tall for him enough to sit up in.  His breathing hitched unevenly, as if he were in pain.  The cage sat in the middle of a room with no windows but two doors.  The walls were unfinished, just a framework of pine beams with some kind of sheathing beyond.  Sam could read the marks on the sides of the wood, red stamps that said Melo’s Lumber._

_Noises in the room beyond the nearer door made the man jump, and he whimpered at the movement.  The door opened suddenly, and the man scrabbled backwards and hunched into the corner of the cage as far from the door as he could get.  His face had a growth of beard that looked weeks old, and his hair stuck out at crazy angles.  Sam realized that it was Dean, and he stared in shock at his unkempt brother._

_A man walked into the room wearing khakis and a long-sleeved polo type shirt.  His hair was brown and it rested on his shoulders.  He looked remarkably like Jeff Bridges.  He strolled over to the side of the cage and squatted down, his right hand negligently holding the bars.  “Hello, Dean, how are you feeling today?”_

_“Bite me,” Dean growled, but instead of sounding defiant, it sounded desperate._

_“Not just now,” the man said, sounding insufferably amused.  “It’s time for us to move on.”_

_Dean’s eyes widened.  “No,” he said, shaking his head._

_“You don’t have a choice, Dean.”  The man pulled out a key and unlocked a padlock, then opened the cage door.  “Come on out.”  The voice was baritone, and sort of smoky, and the tone was cajoling.  “You know you’re going to sooner or later.”_

_“How ‘bout later?”_

_“Are you going to make me come in there after you?”_

_Dean closed his eyes, and Sam could see that he wanted nothing less.  Going onto his hands and knees, he crawled out of the cage and stood next to the man.  They appeared to be about the same height, but Dean was slouching somewhat.  He seemed almost unaware that he was naked, because he made no attempt to cover himself.  The man pointed at a black box Sam had barely noticed.  It stood against the wall, slightly wider than a coffin and about as deep.  The top flipped up, hitting the wall with a crash._

_Dean jerked at the sudden noise.  He started shaking his head.  “Please, don’t make me.  I don’t want to go back in there.  Please!”_

_The man stroked Dean’s shoulder in a strange, creepily sympathetic gesture, but when Dean didn’t move, he sighed.  “If you make me force you, there will have to be punishment.  You know that.”_

_“I can’t!” Dean exclaimed, his eyes wide.  “Please, please, don’t make me!”_

_“Come on, Dean.  You can do it.  You did it last time.”_

_Gradually, the man pulled Dean over to the box.  Reluctantly, with tension in every line of his body, Dean climbed in and allowed himself to be positioned.  His legs were separated and each ankle placed into a padded cuff.  His arms fit into padded slots that ended in cuffs for his wrists.  A cradle supported his head and kept it from moving.  Once Dean was positioned and restrained, the lid came down, closing him into total blackness.  Sam felt his brother’s panic in the blackness; it became his own.  There was no light, no sound, nothing but heavy silence weighing down on him.  Dean began to scream, begging to be let out again, but there was no reprieve._

 

Sam jerked awake and stared at the open road, snowflakes falling in flurries.  “You okay?” John asked.


	8. Chapter 8

Glancing over, Sam saw that his father was only mildly concerned. He certainly hadn't pulled the truck over, so this nightmare must not have had quite as dramatic outward evidences. He shrugged. "I'm good," he said. "How long have I been asleep?"

"We haven't even reached Omaha, Sam. Maybe a little more than an hour."

Sam blinked and sighed. The idea of going back to sleep held little appeal, but he needed his rest. He closed his eyes and tried again to sleep. Over the next several hours he kept falling asleep and waking up again, because his dreams were all claustrophobic and full of terror. On the outskirts of Springfield, Missouri, he said, "Look, I'm not getting any more sleep for a while. Why don't I take my turn driving, and you can sleep."

"Nightmares?" John asked, and Sam nodded. "You prone to those these days?"

Sam shrugged. "I think they're triggered by stress," he said. "I've been having them since late August, right about when I was taking my LSATs, and then there was the law school interview. I'm fine. I just don't always sleep well."

His father pulled off at a gas station. "I'm going to go grab a couple of hot dogs for me. You want anything?"

Sam shook his head. He set about fueling, which seemed to be working into a routine between them, at least when they were both awake. Dad went and got the food, Sam refueled the truck. When John returned, he climbed up into the passenger seat without being prompted. Sam cleaned the windshield, put the pump back and closed the fuel door. Then he went around the truck and climbed in. The keys were in the ignition, and a warm bag was sitting by his hip.

He looked down at it. "What's this?" he asked.

John shrugged. "I know you said you didn't want anything, but there's a ham and cheese sandwich in there, and there's a mug of coffee for you there." Sam looked at the cup holder and saw one of those gigantic mugs mini-marts and other places like that put out so you'd keep coming to them for your coffee.

"Thanks," he said, and then he pulled out. The coffee was welcome, but he wasn't sure he could handle the sandwich. Dad settled against the passenger door and was shortly snoring. Until his father had asked, he hadn't really thought about the dreams he'd had while prepping for the LSATs and waiting for his interview, but now that he'd called them to mind, he realized that they too had featured Dean. At the time, he'd assumed it was just some portion of his mind pointing out that college was done. He'd proved he could live on his own, so there was no shame in returning to his family. He'd squelched that firmly every time the idea occurred to him. Sam shook his head. It couldn't mean anything, surely.

The phone in his pocket buzzed, and he pulled it out. A text from Remo. It was the fifth he'd received since setting out on this unexpected journey. He looked at it, glancing up at the road while he called it up. _I'm calling in a minute, so get ready._ Sam blinked, and then his phone began to chirp his ringtone. He hit the silence button on the first notes, and his father didn't stir. Grimacing, Sam answered the call. "Hey."

"Hey? That's all you say? You disappear for two days, and when your best friend calls, all you say is 'hey'? Dude, that's messed up."

Sam rolled his eyes. "It hasn't been two days yet, and I texted you back the first time."

"Family emergency. Nice, precise, concise, yet completely uninformative." Sam smiled despite himself at the way Remo played with words. "Especially for those of us who never heard you mention a family. I mean, we've all seen that photo on your dresser, but everyone thought it just came with the frame."

"Well, it didn't. I don't have much family, but they need me right now."

"And what happened with Jessica? She hightailed it back home and isn't answering any calls."

Sam grimaced. Evidently she hadn't explained anything to their friends either. "Things . . . they didn't work out."

"But you bought the ring, man," Remo said. "She say no?"

"Look, I really don't want to talk about it. It's over, it sucks, and I've got –"

"A family emergency, I know. Could you be a little more specific? Is your dad dying? Did your brother wreck his car? Is someone in jail?"

Sam grimaced and shrugged. "My brother's kind of AWOL, and it's not like him."

"You called the cops?"

"Sure," Sam said ironically. "What do you think the cops would say if I told them that my twenty-six-year-old brother, who's a bit of a drifter, mind you, has gone missing with no signs of foul play? He took almost all his stuff, and we have no idea where he is." He shook his head. "They'd pat us on the head and tell us to wait for him to call."

Remo was silent for a moment. "Yeah, man, you're right," he said. "That really sucks, but you're totally right." He didn't say anything again for a second, and Sam focused on the road. Remo cleared his throat and spoke hesitantly. "Why are you so sure they wouldn't be wrong?"

"Because he left his car," Sam said. "And I know it doesn't sound like much, but if you knew how Dean felt about his car, you'd understand." He wasn't mentioning the stupid little amulet he'd given Dean for Christmas when he was eight. It would sound entirely too lame.

"Does it work?"

"Even if it didn't, Dean wouldn't have left it, Remo. He would have fixed it. Look, my dad's asleep in the truck beside me, and I don't want to wake him up."

"Where are you?" Remo asked.

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but then his brain kicked in. He couldn't know for sure that he was talking to Remo. And even if he was and Remo told someone who wasn't who they said they were . . . paranoia was contagious, apparently. "I've got to go," he said, and he hung up his phone. Dropping it on the seat beside his father's, he glanced over to see if John had woken up. He leaned against the door still, but he had one eye open. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"Who was that?"

"Friend from college," Sam said defensively, even though there had been no accusation in his father's tone. "But I didn't tell him where we are."

"I did go to the police," John said after a moment, and Sam turned towards him in surprise. "In Beatrice. I wanted to see if there were any signs of . . . I don't know . . . anything. They did exactly what you said."

Sam nodded. "Guys like Dean wander off to greener pastures all the time."

"And some of them just vanish, never to be seen again," John said. "Between serial killers and the supernatural, there's more out there than most cops can even begin to imagine."

"They can't look for everyone," Sam said, feeling a little nettled by this assessment of the normal world. "For all they know, you're some kind of a control freak who just won't let his kids live their own lives."

John gave him a sardonic look under half-lidded eyes. "But we both know I'm nothing like that, right?" he said.

Sam blinked at the first flakes of snow falling past the windshield, then glanced over at his father. Could he really be making a joke? About that? Right now? "Right," Sam said dubiously, and John's eyes closed all the way. Sam sighed and kept driving.

* * *

Bobby awoke feeling like a truck had hit him. Evidently Pamela had returned to find him zonked out and had made him as comfortable as possible before wandering off somewhere in the house. He had a brief sense of that being a potentially dangerous situation, but he shook his head and sat up. His head ached deeply, and his eyes felt like bruised pits. He climbed to his feet and went into the kitchen where he found his lady love sitting at the table, apparently engrossed in the history of the Campbells. He stumbled across to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup, drank it, then poured another and came to sit down. She looked up expectantly, and he gazed at her grimly.

"What'd you find out?"

Her eyes widened. Evidently she'd been expecting some other query because she blinked and said, "You mean the car?" she asked.

"Yeah. I'm surprised John hasn't been calling every hour on the hour to find out what you learned." He was glad he hadn't, but he was surprised.

Pamela shrugged provocatively. "I can tell you every person who's had sex in the back seat," she said, her tone flip and her attitude masking a deep unease.

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "And I'm sure it's a long list. Pamela, what did you find?"

She grimaced and swallowed the remainder of her beer. "How are you feeling, Bobby? Because you look like crap."

"I imagine I do," he said.

"You want some food? I could heat something up for you."

"That warms the cockles of my heart," Bobby said dryly. "You're deflecting. What the hell did you find?"

Pamela shuddered and looked away. "Not a lot, actually. I couldn't stand to touch it for very long. Whatever happened, it was dark and nasty."

"I have no doubt of that," Bobby said.

Her eyes brightened and she leaned forward, showing him her cleavage down to her waist. "I've got an idea!" she declared. "Why don't you come and stay with me for a while?"

"That would kind of defeat the purpose of staying behind to be available for research."

"That's my point." Pamela leaned over the table. "Bobby, this is some seriously dark shit you've gotten yourself mixed up in. You need to get out or you could get dead."

"Yeah, no kidding it's dark shit, Pamela," Bobby exclaimed. "That's why we need all hands on deck! That kid needs my help."

"You don't get it! This is major dark stuff! This is the kind of stuff you don't get involved in!"

"It's exactly the kind of stuff I get involved in!" Bobby retorted. "Where in my contract does it say I only take the easy hunts?"

"Bobby –"

"Quit it, Pamela. I'm a hunter, this is what I do."

"Well, I'm not a hunter," Pamela said, shoving her chair back and glaring down at him.

"I'm not asking you to hunt, I'm asking you to read a damned car. Just quit trying to get me to hightail it. No way in hell am I going to abandon that kid if here's even a slim chance he's still alive and rescuable."

"Who is he to you?" Pamela demanded.

"Does that matter?" Bobby asked, and she looked away. "Would it matter if he were a stranger?" Bobby could tell that it would matter to her, and he heaved a sigh. "Well, as it happens, he's not. He's a kid I care a lot about." He shrugged. "He calls me Uncle Bobby."

"Aw, hell," Pamela said. "And I suppose he's a saint."

Bobby snorted. "Not hardly," he scoffed. They remained in their positions for a few moments in silence, and Bobby followed that train of thought to an unexpected end. "Well, actually, I suppose it depends entirely on your definition of saint. If you're judging by the Augustinian mold, he is."

Pamela gave him a dubious look. "Is he self-sacrificing?"

"Sure, I'd say so," Bobby said, thinking of some of the things he'd given up to make sure Sammy had everything he needed.

"Noble?" Bobby nodded. She tilted her head. "Virginal?" she asked archly.

"Nope, but that's why I specified the Augustinian mold," Bobby replied.

"I don't get it."

"Augustine was the saint whose prayer ran, 'Lord, grant me chastity, but not yet.'"

Pamela's eyebrows went up. "A saint I could get beside."

Bobby rolled his eyes, amused by the thought that Augustine would have quite liked to get beside Pamela. Then he looked at her and saw that she still needed convincing, and he sighed. "Pam, Dean is truly one of the best men I have ever known. Always thinking about other people, always doing his best to help anyone he can. He raised Sammy."

Pamela closed her eyes. "And Dean, he's how much older than Sam?"

"Four, four-and-a-half years. Started looking after Sammy when he was six months old, when their mother died."

"Hell." She stood up. "I'll be back in a while."

"Where are you going?"

Pamela glared at him, drawing on her coat and gloves. "To get a deeper read on that damned car."

Bobby smiled. "Thanks."

She paused with the door open, and looked down for a second. Raising her eyes to his, she said, "Oh, and he is alive. That much I know for sure."

Bobby stared at her. "And you're only just now telling me?" he exclaimed, diving for the phone. Pamela left while he dialed.


	9. Chapter 9

The phone rang when Sam was between Seymour and Mansfield, Missouri, on State Highway 60. Dad was completely out, so Sam reached out for the phone. His father's hand beat his anyway. "Yeah?" Sam waited anxiously to hear what the call was about. "She said what? She's sure?" His father sounded desperate with hope. "She's taking a deeper read on the car?" John nodded. "Thanks, Bobby. Call us when you have more." He clicked the phone off and flipped it shut.

"Well?" Sam demanded. "What'd he say?"

"Pamela did a read on the car, and she says she knows for certain that Dean is still alive."

Something tight in Sam's chest released, and he felt tears coming to his eyes. "Thank God."

"Yeah," John said. "I'm with you there. How you doing? Driving?"

"It's only been about ninety minutes, Dad. Go back to sleep."

"Not sure I could sleep, and you didn't really get any rest earlier."

"I'm fine, Dad," Sam said. He really didn't want to risk any more crap nightmares.

"Your eyes look sunken, Sammy."

"I'm fine," Sam repeated. "Go back to sleep or don't, but I'm driving."

"Okay," John said. He bent over and pulled out his journal. He flipped it open and started writing. Sam reached out and turned on the radio, tuning till he found a station that played music he wanted to listen to. His father glanced over at him. "Really?"

"What's the old rule? Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his –"

"Fine, Sam. We'll listen to the atonal whining."

Sam rolled his eyes and put his foot down on the gas a little harder. If Dean was alive, they had to get there as fast as humanly possible. Dad fell asleep before West Plains.

* * *

Pamela shook her head as she came out of trance and pulled her hand off the side of the car. The palm of her hand was warm, but the back felt frozen. Before putting her glove back on, she stroked the gleaming metal. Bobby's saint sure loved this car. She turned around and hurried back to the house. Bobby was in his library, ears deep in musty old tomes. He looked up as she came in and stared at her for about a second. Then he jumped to his feet. "You found something?"

"I saw a building . . . a house," she said.

"Son of a gun. Can you draw it? Did you see anything to identify it?" He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her over to the table where he shoved a paper and pencil at her.

She shook her head. "I can't draw for shit, Bobby," she said. "Look, the house he's in is fully built, but most of the others aren't. It's an empty neighborhood, and there's no work being done."

"That's good. Anything else?"

She closed her eyes. "Really small, really sloping yards, mostly dirt still, driveways going back to garages in the back yard."

"What about power lines?"

She opened her eyes and turned to stare at him. "What about them?"

"Did you see any?"

"Oh." She closed her eyes again. "No. Underground."

"Did you get anything like a sign? Or an address?"

"Don't you think I would have told you if it was as simple as 5723 Poplar Place?" She rolled her eyes. "There was a utility truck." She grabbed the paper and sketched out the logo, a triangle with a sort of lightning bolt going through the middle. "And there were words, but I couldn't read them." She sketched in the general shape of the words to the left of and beneath the logo.

"You couldn't read them?"

"Words often blur, Bobby."

"Damn." He picked up the page and scrutinized it. "But I think . . ." He walked over to a shelf and pulled a book down. He began flipping through the pages.

"What's that?"

"I've got a collection of logos and stuff like that so I can . . . here it is." He pointed, and Pamela walked over to look. "Which one?"

There was a group of four logos next to each other, for Southern Power, which covered four states. She put her finger on the one that said Alabama Power. "That's it. It's the right length."

"So, now we find out if there's anywhere around Graysville, Alabama that has a suburban development that's stalled."

Pamela nodded eagerly. Little as she wanted to be involved, she was hip deep now, and she wanted her risk not to have been for nothing.

* * *

Sam had driven through Missouri, into Arkansas and on to Tennessee. He stopped at a gas station outside Memphis and got out to stretch and pee. Arc lights hummed above him in the early evening dimness. He glanced through the cab to see his father still sleeping on the passenger side. He figured he'd keep driving if Dad didn't wake up. It had only been about six hours. He could manage. He'd aced exams on less sleep than this.

When he got out of the restroom, his father was fidgeting around the gas pump, as if staring would make it pump faster. Sam hurried across. "What is it?"

"Pamela got a bead on them," John said. "There's an unfinished subdivision just west of Graysville. The demon's holding Dean in one of the finished houses."

Sam heart rate picked up, and he felt his hands fisting and unfisting. "And we're still almost four hours away," he said, looking out towards the highway.

John nodded. "But traffic should slacken up soon. With any luck, we'll make it in a good bit less than that."

"Luck? Dad, this is us. When has our family ever had anything remotely resembling luck?"

"Think positive, kid," John said.

"Are there any other hunters in the vicinity?" Sam asked. "Maybe they could get to him faster."

"That's not the question, Sammy," John said.

"It's not?"

"Other hunters won't be focused on doing whatever it takes to get Dean out of there alive," his father said.

"They wouldn't?" Sam asked. He remembered how hunts had worked when he was a kid. Dean had always emphasized that getting the innocents out of the line of fire had to come first, if possible. Then you could take care of the monster.

His father snorted. "No, most hunters aren't like your brother, Sammy," he said.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked. "I really haven't met many other hunters, Dad. Just Bobby and Caleb, a few of your other cronies, and all when I was a kid."

"As a rule, hunters tend to be very goal-oriented." Sam nodded, but he still wasn't sure what his father was getting at. His father sighed. "For another hunter, the demon would be the goal, not your brother. Dean would be expendable to most of them."

Sam bit his lip. "Okay, I see your point." The pump finished and Sam put it back while his father screwed the fuel lid onto the truck.

"Keys, Sam?"

Reluctantly, Sam handed them over, but he needn't have worried. Dad was as focused as getting there as he was, and he wasn't wrong. He had a lot more experience driving. He wove and dodged between other vehicles with inches to spare, trying to carve as many minutes off their time as he could manage.

"You ought to sleep if you can, Sam," John said after they were well underway.

"Like I could sleep right now," Sam retorted. "Even if there wasn't anything else, the way we're moving would keep me awake."

"You used to be able to sleep through just about anything," Dad said. "I remember some pretty scary drives that had even Dean hanging on for dear life, and throughout, you lay still on the backseat, sliding back and forth."

"I was a kid, Dad. It's different."

There was an odd look on his father's face. "Yeah, I know."

They fell into a sort of intense silence, and Sam kept catching himself leaning forward, as if his desire could make the truck go faster. Images from his dreams kept flashing in his mind, and while he knew they couldn't be anything like what Dean was actually going through, they were bad enough. The one that bugged him the most, though, wasn't an image at all. It was that total darkness, and the sense that it lasted for hours and hours.

Sam shook his head to rid it of the horrible thoughts.

"What is it, kiddo?"

"Just . . . I've had a few nightmares about Dean lately, and some of them were doozies. I keep getting . . ." He shrugged. "I don't know what's really happening to him, but my mind is trying to fill it in, and I don't like it much." A shudder ran through him at a particularly gruesome image of the bastard shoving a metal rod through Dean's skin and deep into his body, between his ribs. "I also don't really like that my imagination can come up with this crap."

John glanced at him briefly, but his attention really had to stay on the road with the aggressive way he was driving. "We all have dark places in our heads, Sam. The trick is not to act from them."

Sam nodded and tried to stop letting those images take over his thoughts. He'd bought a map of western Alabama back in Memphis, and he focused on figuring out the best route to take to get to the right part of Graysville.

Finally, at just before eleven o'clock, they came in sight of a large swathe of construction that was clearly abandoned. Streetlamps stood along the sidewalks and on the fence lines, illuminating the deserted neighborhood clearly in the starless night. Some of the houses were complete, some were partial, and some were just framed. The street leading into the development, Foreman Road, was blocked off with orange-striped barricades. Before turning in, John turned off the truck's lights. He pulled to the edge of the road block, and Sam hurried out to move a couple of them enough for him to drive through and then replaced them so no one would investigate why they were out of place. They'd come down out of the snow miles back, so while the air was chill, the ground was clear.

John drove the truck into an open garage that faced away from the main road so they'd be even less likely to be noticed. Sam ran up to join him as he opened up the weapons cache on the back of his truck. It was unexpectedly high tech. Sam dug in his own duffel for some of his preferred weapons, but he accepted a gun from his father. He'd left those behind when he'd gone to Stanford, not willing to license them, but not willing to risk losing them if the police found out somehow. Besides, esoteric knives were one thing – a hobby – a handgun in the dorm would have gotten him in deep trouble. Not that anyone had ever seen his cache in the dorm.

Sam shoved the gun into the back of his jeans, startled by how natural it felt there even after all this time. "You going to try to exorcise this guy?" Sam asked.

"I'm hoping to sneak in under his radar and get Dean away by stealth," John replied soberly. "This is one powerful son of a bitch, and I don't know if an ordinary exorcism would even work on him."

Sam blinked. That was new. Dad usually went for the bull in the china shop method of hunting, at least so far as Sam remembered. He was fine with the change. Getting Dean out was Sam's priority.

They paused in the driveway of the house to reconnoiter. Sam felt a strange sort of tug. "This way," he said since they really didn't have a specific direction.

"Any particular reason?" his father asked.

Sam shrugged. "A hunch. We've got to go one way or another."

John nodded and led the way across the street. It was strangely eerie moving through the completely still streets amid the skeletons of buildings. They were trespassing on private property, and the bright lights made Sam extremely uneasy.

"Most of these are no more than frames," John said, looking around. "We're looking for one that's whole."

"There!" Sam said quietly. "Over there." There were three framed houses between them and the next whole one. "Do we split up? One of us takes the front, the other takes the back?"

His father was silent for a moment, then he looked Sam square in the eye. "Are you fit?"

"Yeah, Dad," Sam said impatiently. "Let's go."

After a moment, John nodded. "You take the back."

Sam took a deep breath and started through the frames, angling towards the rear entrance to the house while his father angled towards the front. He kept his breathing even as Dean and Dad had taught him, and tried to stay out of view of the windows he could see. The rear door was shut, but not locked, and there were no lights inside. Sam slipped a penlight out of his pocket and tried the door. The knob turned easily, and the only sound Sam could hear for what felt like miles around was the noise of the door unlatching. He pushed it open and entered the house with caution. He was in what clearly should be a kitchen, but there were no fixtures. Just the cabinets and open places for appliances. There was no sign of occupation, but they would undoubtedly have to search the whole damn subdivision. He just hoped they could finish before dawn.

There were two doors out of the kitchen. One led into a laundry room that, like the kitchen, had cupboards but no appliances. The other let out in a hallway. He could see the glow of his father's light going into a different part of the house. There was a door to his left. He pushed it open, keeping his hand close to his gun. Then he stepped into a scene out of a nightmare.

Literally. Out of his nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us for a moment pretend that I am a desperately needy writer who craves reviews. Wait, did I say pretend? That's the honest truth. Please tell me what you think. The number of views ticking up is nice, but it's also very awesome to hear what you like and what you don't like.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I resisted releasing this chapter early for about twelve seconds, but I finally decided to go for it.
> 
> .

* * *

 

The front door wasn't locked, though it was closed. John opened the door on hinges that moved more silently than he would have expected in an abandoned house. The door opened onto what real estate agents tended these days to call the 'great room,' basically an oversized living room. To his left there was a doorway leading into a dining room, he'd guess, and no doubt beyond that into the kitchen. To his right there was an inset doorway that appeared to lead into the private rooms of the house. He edged that way and eased the door open.

An appalling smell hit him full force then, and he knew they had the right place. Why the reek hadn't pervaded the whole house, he couldn't imagine, but he swallowed his gorge and continued further down the hall. The first door let into a bathroom where he saw bloody footprints but nothing more. Two more doors led into empty rooms, then the last opened on what had to be the master bedroom. The walls and windows were painted black, and glyphs had been painted on the walls in livid red paint, screaming down from all sides. The floor had not yet been carpeted, but so much blood had been shed in this room that the wooden subfloor had soaked it up. Four squares of pale wood formed the corners of a long rectangle, roughly six and a half feet by three.

The amount of blood horrified him. No way could Dean have lost that amount and survived the experience. Jars of a brownish substance sat in corners of the room, and he had to control his stomach so he didn't throw up. He backed out. Where was Sam? What else might be in this house? Was Dean dead in one of its rooms?

He turned and hurried towards the back of the house.

* * *

In stunned astonishment and growing nausea, Sam walked into the center of the room and stared around. Running footsteps alerted him to his father's approach. "Sam? Sam!"

Sam was entirely unable to respond. The red stamps on the sides of the pine beams shouted out to him. _Melo's Lumber._ Three with the tops of the letters towards the right, one with it towards the left, then two towards the right. There was even an outline in the sawdust on the cement floor to show where the black box had been . . . marks on the floor from where Dean had lain and blood had seeped through the mattress. A faint crosshatch pattern in the blood from the bars of the cage.

"Sam!" His father came in through the open door. "What are you doing in here?"

"Dean was here, Dad," Sam said. "I saw him here."

"What do you mean, you saw him?" John demanded, staring around blankly

"Dad, I know this sounds crazy, but it . . ." Sam realized he was shaking. "I saw this room in my nightmare. Every detail."

John stared at him. "Sam, what are you saying?"

"There was a cage, a metal cage right . . ." Sam realized he was standing where the edge of the cage had been and stumbled sideways into the wall. "Right there," he said. "Long enough for Dean to lie down and tall enough to sit up in, but no bigger than that. And . . . and the guy, the demon, I guess, he came in and . . ." Sam shook his head. "Dad, what's going on here? This is nuts, but it's all . . . see that outline in the dust?"

He pointed and his father looked down. "What outline?"

Sam could see it so clearly, but then he'd seen the box. "There was a box along here, about the size of a coffin –"

"Sam, your brother is not dead. We know that."

"I know!" Sam shook his head. "You don't get it, Dad. We're too late! In my dream, earlier, I saw the man – the demon – coax Dean into the box and shut it on him because they were moving. Ever since, I've been dreaming of blackness and movement and noise. Dad, what the hell is going on here? Am I dreaming what's happening to Dean? Because if I am, we have to find him. We have to find him now!"

His father grabbed him by the arms and stared at him intently. "Sam, calm down. We need to talk about this."

"Dad, if my dreams are real . . . you don't know . . . I didn't . . ." Sam stared off into the distance, seeing the image of a metal rod being tapped into Dean's body again. Seeing hands slicing into the skin of Dean's back. He brought his hands up to cover his eyes. It had been weeks. He'd started having these dreams in August.

"What, Sam? What don't I know?"

Sam gulped and clasped his hands in front of his face, looking at his father's chin because he couldn't meet his eyes. "I've been dreaming about something terrible happening to Dean for months. All those nightmares – the stress dreams I told you about, they were all about Dean! If I'd just realized – if I'd only known . . . we could have . . . we might have . . ."

"Sam!" His father gave him a shake. "People have dreams, and they can be startlingly vivid, but you're reaching. Your mind is playing tricks on you."

"Is it?" Sam demanded. "You found another room, didn't you? One with the windows blacked out. The walls have been painted black, and there are red symbols drawn on them." The poleaxed look on his father's face was answer enough. "I saw it, Dad. I saw Dean strapped down to a table in that room. I saw the . . . why would a demon look like Jeff Bridges?"

"You think a demon possessed Jeff Bridges?" John asked incredulously.

"No!" Sam exclaimed. "He looked like Jeff Bridges. Maybe a little shorter, with darker hair, but . . . Jeff Bridges."

"That's good to know," John said. He squeezed Sam's arms. "Sam, you're hysterical, you need to calm down."

"Calm down?" Sam broke away from his father's grasp and walked over to the other side of the room, aware that he was avoiding walking where either the box or the cage had been. "I've been dreaming of my brother being tortured by a demon for weeks, Dad, and I didn't know it."

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "What else did you see?" he asked.

* * *

The box hadn't moved in a while. Dean knew that meant he should get out soon, but he always worried that he'd be forgotten in this tight enclosure. It was only his fourth time in the box, but once had been more than enough. He struggled to keep his breathing even so he wouldn't pass out again. Waking up in the box was almost worse than getting shut inside in the first place. Keeping calm was difficult, though. His bladder was full to bursting, and his throat was parched, and he could feel the weight of all creation pressing down against him.

The lid came up, and his eyes were abruptly assaulted with blinding light. He sucked in lungfuls of fresh air, not caring that the chill was making him shiver. The air was new and clean. He squinted up, trying to see what there was to see. After a moment, a bearded face came into view, and Dean struggled against the desire to thank the demon for letting him out of the box. For one thing, he wasn't actually out of the box. The lid could close at any moment, sealing him back in forever, and there would be nothing Dean could do to stop it. He clenched his teeth on the pleas that suddenly threatened to burble out. Not that it mattered. Azazel owned his ass, and Dean knew it.

"Heya, Dean," Azazel said, and Dean managed a sort of dry gulp. "How ya feelin', kiddo?"

All Dean could think was 'you've got to be kidding,' but he knew that wasn't the answer the demon wanted, and over the course of the past eternity, he'd discovered that doing what Azazel wanted grew more important every day. He loathed himself for it, but he kept his teeth closed on the sarcasm. Unfortunately, that meant he didn't say anything else.

"Cat got your tongue?" Azazel asked with an indecently amused grin.

"Kinda," Dean croaked after a moment.

"Sounds like you need some water, my boy," Azazel said. "Let's get you out of there."

Dean was all in favor of that. He craned as much as he could to see Azazel open the cuffs on his wrists, and as soon as his hands were free, he brought them up to cover his face. He could feel tears forming, tears of relief that Azazel would no doubt take for gratitude. He forced them under control while Azazel freed his ankles. There was silence then, and Dean moved his hands to find that Azazel had offered him a hand up. Dean gazed up at the demon nervously for a moment, then took the proffered hand. The jerk that pulled him to his feet was excruciating, but then most things were right now. He let out a gasp, and then gulped down on the groan that followed.

Azazel put a hand in the middle of Dean's back and gave him a gentle push, chuckling at the way Dean winced away from his touch. The cuts there were the oldest, but they still hadn't truly healed. Dean wasn't sure they were supposed to. Tapping Dean periodically to let him know what direction to go, Azazel guided him to a bathroom. Dean almost ran through the door and positioned himself in front of the toilet. A full bladder could be agony, and he still had enough dignity left not to want to pee himself. Not so much that he couldn't take a leak straight out in front of the demon, who watched with fascination. Most of the time lately, Dean forgot he was naked. He hadn't had any clothes on for longer than he could count. Of course, the fact that he hadn't seen either the sun or a clock in all that time made it more difficult.

He gave it a shake, then went to the sink automatically to wash his hands. Strange that such a normal, ordinary habit hung on under these circumstances. The mirror was gone. When there were bathrooms like this, the mirror was always gone. Like Azazel didn't want to see himself, or like he didn't want Dean to see his handiwork. It didn't make much of a difference, and Dean didn't want to know why badly enough to ask. Cupping his hands, he took a drink of water that felt cool and fresh all the way down. His stomach gurgled a little, but Dean just took another swallow.

"You're bleeding," Azazel said, and Dean looked down at the cuts on his left side. They were oozing blood and a strange, greenish pus that made Dean feel sick at his stomach, but then the true import of that statement hit home.

He looked back up at Azazel and saw the light of pleasure dancing in his eyes, the yellow wash that came over his irises. "No!" Dean said, backing away. "No, no, God, please, no!"

Azazel raised a hand and Dean froze in place. "Come now, Dean," he said, walking around behind him. "We can't have you bleeding everywhere and making a mess. That would spoil everything." Dean unfroze, and he started to move away from Azazel, but the demon's hands came down on his shoulders, and Dean closed his eyes. There were no cuts that high on his torso, the skin the demon was now touching was whole, unblemished, but everything was connected. Pressure in one spot made pain spike in another.

Dean resolved not to speak further, not to beg, but when Azazel began to propel him forward, his resolution faltered and broke. "Please, I don't think I can take any more." He could hear the whine in his voice, the desperation.

"Do you want to die?" Azazel asked in a pleasant tone, like he was asking if Dean wanted a shave. Dean wasn't honestly sure of his answer. Death seemed like an easy way out of this nightmare sometimes. "If I don't treat you, the blood will flow unchecked, and gradually it will drain you dry." Unlike most of the options Dean had for death right now, that sounded relatively painless. "But if you die, who will look after your brother?"

"I'm not talking about Sammy," Dean said staunchly. It was the one thing he clung to. He didn't care what the demon did to him, he wasn't telling him a damned thing about his brother.

They had reached a doorway that had marks on either side of it that Dean recognized. He stopped, or tried to. When he ceased moving forward under his own power, the demon gave him a calculated shove at waist level. Dean let out a cry and stumbled through the doorway. Passing between the sigils caused his body to tingle painfully, but it was a passing sensation, and not one that merited much notice.

He felt a slow tickle down his left side as the blood continued to ooze from the suppurating wounds. He looked around himself in surprise. "What happened to the black walls?" he asked. These walls were a filthy, mottled gray-brown, like they hadn't been cleaned in years, but they did have the familiar glyphs on them.

"This is a temporary abode, we won't be here more than a few days." Which meant the box was coming all too soon again. "The decorator hasn't been by."

The table was there, however, and the tools. Dean began to panic at the thought of being up there again, at the thought of what was coming.

Azazel never tried to get him to climb up voluntarily. He just manhandled him onto the surface and strapped him down in whatever position was needed. Dean struggled wildly, but it was pointless. All it did was make things worse. "Now look what you've done," Azazel chided. "One of the ones on your front is open now. Hold still, my boy, or I'll have to treat every one of your wounds."

Dean held as still as was humanly possible with his breath coming in sobbing gasps. He wound up on his back, his arms strapped down above his head, his legs bound tightly together. Azazel moved away, and Dean could hear jars opening. "Here we go," Azazel murmured, and he began to pack Dean's wounds with his 'treatment.' Dean suffered through it for about ten seconds before he could no longer hold the screams in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. Another cliffhanger, I know, but at least Dean has entered the story.
> 
> The next chapter should be out on Sep. 1.


	11. Chapter 11

Sam sat on the curb next to the remains of his last meal. After John had taken him through what he remembered of his dreams in exacting detail, he'd led Sam through the house to the room he'd described. It reeked of blood and urine, and it had evoked more memories that sent Sam racing for the exit. He tried to regulate his breathing, but it felt like he was going to heave again. And just to make things better, he was starting to have intermittent blinding pains in his head.

His father settled down beside him, holding out a bottle of water. "You okay, Sammy?"

"Hell, no, I'm not okay." Sam rubbed his aching head with his hand. He took the bottle from his father with a nod of thanks and opened it. Downing a swig of water, he tried to get the muscles in his neck to relax. "My brother is actively being tortured by a demon. That makes 'okay' an impossibility."

"Fine. Allow me to rephrase," John said. "Are you up to heading back to the truck?"

Sam considered that and then nodded. Wallowing wouldn't help them find Dean. God, he wanted to protect Dean, but to do that they'd have to find him. He grimaced. Dean needed to be a spur to action, not a further reason to wallow. Sam started to get up, but the pain his head got measurably worse abruptly. He fell forward onto his knees and clutched at his head. Hands grabbed at him, but he barely felt them as images began to play in his mind. _Dean lay strapped to a table, his arms crossed above his head, his body bare and arching with tension. The demon – Azazel, Sam supposed – had a knife in his hand, and he was carefully cutting a wavy line down the front of Dean's thigh. Dean's eyes were fixed on the ceiling, his jaw set, and Sam could tell that he was trying desperately not to scream. Blood seeped and then began to flow from the cut. It trickled down both sides of Dean's leg and fell to the table where it dribbled down a sloping surface and landed in a trough with an audible dripping sound._

 _"_ _You know, Dean, you've been with me for weeks now," Azazel said conversationally. "And yet there's no sign of your loving family. Sammy couldn't wait to get away from you, and your father abandoned you at the first opportunity. I'm all you've got left."_

_The muscles of Dean's neck stood out like ropes against his skin. "Bite me!" he growled._

_"_ _One of these days, I may have to take you up on that offer," Azazel said. He paused in his cutting as if to check his work for mistakes. "In the meantime . . ."_

"Sam! Sammy! What the hell! Sam!"

Sam knelt in the road, his father's arms around him, supporting him. The images were gone, the words trailing off to nothing. "I saw Dean," he said, his voice breaking.

"What?" His father's arms tightened around him. "What did you see?"

"He's moving from Dean's torso to his left leg," Sam said, feeling perilously close to tears. Fighting past the weakness the vision had engendered in him, he forced himself to his feet. "We've got to go. We've got to call Bobby and find out what we need to do next."

The walk to the truck was a blur in Sam's mind. One moment he was standing there, looking down at his father who was still squatting beside him where he'd fallen to his knees, and the next he was climbing into the cab on the passenger side.

"Isn't it my turn to drive?" he asked.

"Not while you look like you're going to pass out, it isn't. Besides, I'm just driving into town to find a motel."

"But we have to find Dean," Sam said, shaking his head.

"We don't know where to go, Sammy. Driving blindly isn't going to help anything. You need sleep, I need sleep, and we need to call Bobby."

Sam thumped his head against the window. "I'm not going to be able to sleep, Dad. And what was that? I was thinking about Dean, and then suddenly I was seeing him."

"I don't know, Sam," John said, but Sam heard an odd note in his voice.

"Dad?" he asked, his brows knitting, and his father turned to look at him. There was guilt and alarm in his eyes. "Dad, what is it?"

"I don't know, really," John replied. "But I have my suspicions."

"What suspicions?" Sam asked.

"We still don't know what the demon did to you." His father looked forward, towards the back wall of the garage they were parked in. "We still don't know why or what the long term effects might be."

"Are you seriously suggesting that I'm dreaming about what's happening to Dean because of something a demon did to me when I was six months old?"

"It's not as crazy as it sounds."

"Really? Because it sounds pretty crazy."

"Dreaming about real events sounds pretty crazy, but we know you're doing that."

Sam grimaced and shook his head. "We have to find Dean. I don't know how long anyone could survive under that amount of torture."

"Sam, don't you see? In a weird way this is actually good news."

"What?!"

"If he's doing that much work on Dean, it means he's not planning on killing him."

"Or he's just doing an elaborate preparation for a sacrifice," Sam retorted. "Dad, there is nothing good about any of this."

John started the engine and pulled out of the garage, leaving the lights off. Sam was prepared to jump out and move the barricades, but before he could even take off his seatbelt, his father had left the cab and started moving them himself. Sam got out so that he could move them back into place after his father had pulled through, but John turned around when he heard the door open. "Get back in the truck, Sammy. You look like you're going to fall over at any minute."

"I'm fine, Dad," Sam replied irritably, crossing to the barricades. "Drive through so we can get out of here."

Glaring at him, his father said, "Get back in the truck, Sam. I got it."

"I'm out here now, let's just get on with it." Dad finally went and got back in the truck. Sam moved the barricades and then walked over to the truck. He leaned against the side of it for a second before hauling himself up.

"I told you not to get out, Sammy," his father said. "Maybe you'll listen to me next time."

"Yes, sir," Sam muttered, looking out the window. He tried to stay awake, but he began to drift, not asleep but not really awake. He only came to himself again when his father turned off the engine. He looked up and saw a neon sign that read Red Gate Motor Lodge. The vacancy sign was lit. "Stay here, Sam. I'll get us a room."

Sam nodded. He didn't particularly want to move right now. He was contemplating sleeping in the truck. He drifted off even while Dad went in and got the room. The truck rocked and Sam sat up with a jerk. "Wha –"

"Yeah, Sammy, you're fine," John said. He started the truck and drove around to the other side of the motel to park. "Room 32," he said, gesturing with his chin. Sam looked over and saw the room number. The building looked a well-kept late forties, and Sam wondered what the room would be like inside. Dad grabbed their go bags from behind the seats of the truck and went to the door of the room, opening it with a key. It lacked the modern convenience of automatically closing hinges, so he left the door open and went inside. Sam glanced down at the bench seat of the truck. It was flat, well padded, and didn't require more than falling over to get to. That made it very appealing.

The passenger door opened, and his father grabbed his arm. "Come on, Sammy. You're too big for me to carry, so you're going to have to help me out here."

Sam allowed his father to bully him out of the front seat of the truck and into the motel room. There, he fell onto one of the beds and lost track of the world.

* * *

Bobby kept the phone handy while researching the demon Azazel. Even if John managed to exorcise him tonight, they'd undoubtedly have to face him again. His having come after the Winchester/Campbell family more than once already pointed to that, however little he liked it. Pamela had long since gone to bed, but he couldn't sleep until he knew the outcome of tonight's action. In the meantime, he could make good use of his sleepless hours.

The phone rang and Bobby stared at it with his heart in his throat. Before it rang a second time, he grabbed it and said, "Hello?"

"Bobby, it's John." He sounded anxious and upset. That didn't actually tell Bobby anything specific. "We were too late."

Bobby's heart skipped a beat and he gulped. "He's dead?" he asked, his voice gone unexpectedly weak.

"What?" John asked. "No, no, we missed them. The bastard moved him before we reached them."

"Damn it!" Bobby growled. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"There's been kind of an unexpected development, though," John went on, ignoring Bobby's ire. "You remember how I told you that the demon had done something to Sammy?"

"I remember you saying you thought he'd –"

"Sam is having visions," John said abruptly.

Bobby blinked. "There's no history of psychic abilities in the Campbell family," he said, running the family tree through his mind.

"Nor the Winchesters, I assure you," John said. "He's specifically having visions – and dreams – about Dean being tortured. Can that be coincidence? So far as I can tell, he's never had them about anything else."

"Of course it could be coincidence, John, it's just not likely." Bobby shook his head. "How can you be sure he's not just having a stress reaction?"

"Can't you just take my word for it?"

"No, John, you've got to see that I can't," Bobby replied. "This is all a little wacko. Tell me what your evidence is, please."

John heaved an angry sigh. "If I had anything to go on at this moment, I'd tell you to stuff yourself." Bobby just waited. "When we got to the subdivision, Sam started making suggestions about where we should go. I didn't think anything of it, he said he just had a hunch."

"Sounds reasonable."

"We entered the house he picked out separately, him from the back and me from the front. I found the torture room, and Sam found the room where Dean was being held." Bobby found that he was grinding his teeth and forced his jaw to relax. "The place was deserted, no vehicles, no sound, nothing. I went to find Sam to let him know what I'd discovered, and I found him standing in the middle of an empty, unfinished room, looking like he'd just been punched in the gut. He told me that he'd had a dream about that room, and described the circumstances of Dean's captivity and transport." John's voice sounded unnervingly calm for most of this, but his voice wavered a little on the word 'transport.' "I reacted the same way you just did, only then Sam proceeded to describe the torture room to me."

"Son of a bitch."

"There was no way he'd seen it, I found it almost immediately, and he wasn't in that part of the house."

Bobby closed his eyes. John wasn't going to like this. "Is there any chance something took him over while you were apart?" he asked.

"I gave him a drink spiked with holy water," John said immediately, and Bobby was startled by his easy acceptance of the question. John really had changed on this subject. "He didn't even notice. Still doesn't know. I didn't want to unnerve him any further because . . . he had a vision, Bobby. Not asleep, no external factors that I could see, he just collapsed to his knees and froze. I thought he was having some kind of fit or something, but that wasn't it. When he came to himself, he described something new happening to Dean. Bobby . . . I know how crazy this sounds, but it fits with everything else I've learned."

Bobby swallowed. "John, if the demon gave Sam psychic powers somehow, then what the hell did he do to the other kids you tracked down?"

John was silent for a moment. "I guess we'll have to find out, won't we? In the meantime, I've got to locate Dean. Sam's about hysterical, and from what he described, I don't really blame him."

"How much did he describe?" Bobby asked. "How many dreams has he had?"

"He started having them in late August, he says, about the time he took some big test, and he put them down to stress and guilt. He was babbling for most of the conversation, so it was a little hard to put it all together clearly. He's convinced that he should have recognized them for what they were, and is beating himself up over the fact that he didn't try to help his brother before now."

Bobby shook his head. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?" he said rhetorically. John made an irritated sound. "So, I haven't found diddly-shit on Azazel that means anything. He's referred to in some of the literature as the angel who led the Grigori, and in others as a demon to whom the Israelites sacrificed a goat by leaving it in the desert. None of that seems real relevant at the moment."

"Is Pamela still there?" John asked.

"She's in bed. The reading she did earlier wiped her out."

"When she's awake again, can you get her to do another one? Dean's still out there, and this bastard's cutting on him."

"Cutting? Cutting how?"

"Sam said he's being real careful, some kind of designs or something. I don't know, I didn't see it."

Bobby's mind started working fast. That sounded like magic or ritual. "Get him to draw out the designs if you can. I might be able to figure something out based on that."

"I'll see what I can do when he's awake." John was silent for a moment. "Bobby, thanks," he said, and then he was gone.

Bobby swallowed a lump in his throat and kept up his research. Every new piece of information just made this situation worse and worse.

* * *

Dean lay on his right side in the cage, his whole body shaking with the aftereffects of 'treatment.' By the time Azazel had gotten done with him, wounds on his back had opened up as well, so his right side was the only one that wasn't providing him with fresh pain. For a long while, he was aware of little beyond the agony and the demon moving around the room, but he was always aware of Azazel unless he was literally unconscious.

As the pain gradually subsided, however, thought started intruding on his mind. Unwelcome thought. He wished sometimes that he could stop thinking altogether. His cage had been placed near one of the walls of the room, and Dean lay with his back to the bulk of the space. Ordinarily, he would never do that, but his instinct upon getting off the table was to turn his back to it and pretend it didn't exist as far as that was possible. When he was housed with the table in the same room, that gave him little choice.

Without moving, Dean assessed the location the best he could. He couldn't even guess what the room had been used for prior to his incarceration here. It was fairly large, but Dean could see nothing beyond grimy walls and a ceiling about ten feet up. There were no windows, nothing, at least not on this side of the room. He wasn't prepared to turn over to find out what the rest of the room looked like, though he did wonder what Azazel was doing.

A sharp crack from behind him made him jump, and he let out a cry when the movement reactivated some of the pains that had subsided. He took in a shuddering breath and forced himself to sit up. He'd just hurt himself more by staying unaware of what the demon was doing behind him. He shifted around carefully so as not to bump any of the bars of the cage and sat Indian-style so he could see the rest of the room.

The table was a big blot to his left because he chose not to acknowledge that portion of the room. Fortunately, he wasn't forced to, because what he needed to see was to his right, down the long end of the room. Azazel had been very busy. There was a roughly circular diagram laid out on the floor in silver spray paint, maybe ten or fifteen feet across. Dean couldn't really see the shape of it clearly because he wasn't high enough up, but it looked like an ambitious project. Which couldn't mean anything good. He wondered what had caused the loud sound.

"Glad to see you're paying attention again, Dean," Azazel called, and Dean's whole body stiffened to attention. "Are you ready to play the central participant in a ritual?"

"No way in hell am I going to do anything for you," Dean growled.

Azazel walked around his diagram and stood outside the cage. Dean had to look up to see his face, and that wrinkled the injuries on his back, making him hiss with pain. "I thought you'd say that," Azazel said. "It doesn't much matter. I can do every part of this spell but the final one, and I'm sure I can persuade you to behave yourself when the time is right." Dean shook his head but didn't contradict Azazel again. Maybe if he refused to participate at the crucial moment it would screw up the spell, and he'd rather put off his punishment for disobedience as long as possible. He just glowered up at his captor.

Reaching down, Azazel opened the door of the cage, and Dean stared at the opening in alarm. He didn't really want to go out there. "Come along, Dean," the demon said, his voice cajoling. "There'll be a nice cookie for you in it if you perform your part well."

"I'd rather have a nice burger," Dean said sarcastically.

"Deal," Azazel said instantly, and Dean looked up at him, dismayed by that reaction. No way was he making a deal with a demon. Those didn't end well. "If I get what I want out of you, I will give you a nice, fat, juicy bacon double cheeseburger."

"I'm not doing what you want," Dean retorted. "And I'm not coming out. There's no point."

"Oh, you'll come out," the demon said, giving Dean a malicious smile. He murmured a few words, and Dean's torso lit up with agonizing pain. He couldn't even scream, it hurt so much. After an eternal time that couldn't have lasted more than a minute, the pain let up and Dean found himself on his side on the mattress. He prayed that none of the wounds had opened up. "You ready to do as I say?" Azazel asked. After a second, Dean crawled out of the cage and rose shakily to his feet. Once he was upright, the demon clapped a cuff around his wrist then walked away. Dean tugged on the chain and discovered that it was still attached to the table. He shuddered and turned away.

Azazel began the spell he'd laid out the diagram for. It appeared to be in Latin, but that was no shock. Lots of magic was in Latin. Unfortunately, Dean didn't really know Latin, so he couldn't tell what the spell was for, though he noticed a lot of mentions of _spiritus sancti_ , which seemed odd in a demonic ritual.

Gradually, the chanting grew more intense, and Dean could feel energies swirling around the room. Finally, the demon said, "Invoco. Invoco! INVOCO!" Then he threw his hands into the air. The energies settled into a taut expectancy. After a few seconds in the heavy silence, Dean felt compelled to look at Azazel. The demon wasn't looking at him, he seemed to be focused on the diagram.

Dean bought his hands up to cover his face. He wanted his father to come bursting in here with an insane plan and rescue him. Short of that, he wouldn't mind just dropping dead. He couldn't help the demon if he was dead, surely. Demons couldn't resurrect without a deal so far as Dean knew.

A single footstep was all the warning he got before a hard hand seized his left forearm, dragging him to the edge of the diagram. "When I release you, I want you to go to the center there and place this hand squarely in the middle of the circle." Dean couldn't even pretend not to know what he meant. It was painfully obvious where he was to put his hand. He shook his head. "How badly do you want to be punished again?" Azazel asked and Dean closed his eyes. He opened them again in shock when a line of fire opened up along his hand. The demon had drawn the blade of a knife across his palm, causing blood to pour forth. He then gave Dean a shove that propelled him into the ritual circle. Dean hit his knees and groaned at the pain caused by the abrupt movement. "Let me tell you one thing, Dean. You do this, you hurt no one but yourself. You don't do it, I have a demon in place ready to scoop your brother up and bring him here."

Dean turned in horror. Azazel looked perfectly serious, and Dean couldn't help but believe him. And Sammy – he couldn't risk it. He turned back and slammed his hand down in the middle of that circle.

Blazing light poured out of the ceiling and Dean briefly felt uplifted by it. Then it seemed to dart away behind him. Dean turned, eyes wide, and saw a male figure appear inside another, smaller circle, his back to the rest of the room. He turned, speaking. "Dean, thank God, have you –" Three things happened almost at once. Azazel snapped his fingers, flames roared up in a circle around the man, and the man broke off, staring across the room at Dean, his blue eyes wide with some unspoken emotion.

Azazel began to laugh. Dean strode over and grabbed him. "You said it wouldn't hurt anyone but me!" he exclaimed.

With a careless flick of his arm, Azazel thrust Dean back. He landed on his butt and kept his cry of pain in with a massive effort. "I can't hurt your little friend over there," he said. "The most I can do is exorcise him, and if I do that, he comes back in another vessel. This way he's trapped, and once we move on again, he'll stay here until someone comes by and puts the fire out."

"Son of a bitch!" Dean growled. He didn't really understand all that about a vessel and exorcism, but he was furious at having been tricked into helping Azazel trap some poor schmoe here. He got to his feet and started for the demon again.

"Dean, no!" It was the schmoe, and Dean stopped in his tracks, turning to stare at him. "You cannot hurt him, all you will do is hurt yourself."

"He's right, Dean," Azazel said. "Go back to your cage and wait for me there. I have business with our guest."

Dean shook his head. "Leave him alone," he said. "I won't let you hurt him."

"You couldn't stop me, Dean," Azazel replied. "Now, go back to your –"

"I am not going to slink away like a whipped dog," Dean retorted, straightening his back and glowering at his captor. "If you're going after that guy, you'll have to go through –" Dean's words broke off in a cry of pain, and he collapsed to the floor. The pain was worse than the last few times. Apparently Azazel's level of anger made a difference to the strength of the spell. Dean could hear yelling, but he couldn't make out words over the pounding of his heart in his ears. Finally, the pain receded, and Dean was able to relax on the floor.

Azazel squatted beside him. "Go back to your cage, Dean. Now."

Dean didn't even look at the demon's new captive, he just slunk away like a whipped dog and huddled inside the cage. The chain was just long enough to let him get inside and pull his legs up to his chest. He was worthless.


	12. Chapter 12

Pain always came first. It was one of the ways Dean could tell he was still alive. He opened his eyes. There was no movement in the room, which meant Azazel wasn't here. He always made noise. He didn't seem to be able to remain silent. Sitting up, he tried to stretch without hurting himself and caught sight of an unmoving figure across the room. It was kind of eerie how completely still the man was. He wore a trench coat and a suit that he obviously found somewhat constricting from the way he'd loosened the tie and collar. Dean guessed him at about average height, with brown hair and vividly blue eyes that were fixed on Dean.

"Dude," he called. "I'm sorry."

"It was not your fault, Dean," the man said.

"How do you know my name?" Dean asked.

"I have been searching for you. I am sorry not to have found you before this time."

"Hey, dude, you don't even know me. I'm just glad someone's looking for me." Dean shrugged and winced. "Was looking for me," he corrected.

"Your father and brother are searching for you as we speak," the man said. He seemed to have an oddly monotonous voice, but it was almost mesmerizing. Very deep and husky.

"Right, Sammy left college to come look for his errant brother," Dean said, startled by how much the thought bothered him. "Not likely. Besides, Azazel says he's still at school."

"And you believe what Azazel tells you?" the man asked.

Dean blinked at him. Demons lie. It was a hunter maxim. "Not always," he said. "But Sammy wouldn't leave school. Not for me."

"You do your brother a disservice," the man said.

"Who the hell are you to tell me that?" Dean demanded.

"I am Castiel."

"Odd name. Are you Portuguese or Spanish or something?"

The man tilted his head. "I'm an angel of the Lord."

Dean blinked at him. "Okey dokey," he said. "Either you're insane or I'm hallucinating." He tilted his head. "Or both."

"You believe you might be hallucinating a crazy man?" Castiel asked him.

"That would be about par for my life right now."

"I am not crazy and you are not hallucinating."

"If you were crazy, you'd say you weren't," Dean said. "And if I was hallucinating, hell, you'd probably say I wasn't. That proves nothing." He held up a hand. "And don't try telling me secrets about my life, because I know all those, so all that would prove was that you were a hallucination."

Castiel blinked at him, looking puzzled. "I wish only to help you, Dean."

Dean was good with that. He grinned at the guy. "Then come over here and open the cage."

"I cannot leave the circle," Castiel replied. "Or I would."

"What would happen if you tried?"

"I would die."

"Okay!" Dean sighed. "So, you're not even a useful hallucination."

"I am not a hallucination."

Dean shook his head and lay back down. As delusions went, this one seemed pretty boring. Sleep was his best escape. Sometimes he even dreamed of happy things. If he couldn't have a decent hallucination, maybe he could dream of strippers. Before he could force himself to drift off, the door opened, and Dean sat up sharply. That had to mean that Azazel was back. Why this demon had made him a pet project, Dean didn't know.

"Dean?" the hated voice called. "I brought you your burger." Dean could smell it, beef and the bacon and the cheese. Even the mayonnaise. "Your reward for a job well done." His gut twisted. His reward for getting the crazy guy captured. Azazel walked up and put the bag down just outside the cage. "Eat up."

Dean looked at the bag and swallowed bile. "I don't want it."

"You asked for it, Dean," Azazel said, glancing at the crazy guy, hallucination, whatever. "I offered you a cookie, and you said –"

"I didn't know!" Dean exclaimed. He leaned so that he could see Castiel. "I didn't know, and I didn't mean it. It was a joke."

"I understand, Dean," Castiel said. "I do not blame you."

"He said he'd have a demon grab Sammy, and I couldn't take the chance. At school he doesn't have any kind of protections, and . . . and . . ."

"It's all right," Castiel said. "I understand."

"How sweet," Azazel murmured. "So, you're not going to eat my generous reward, Dean?" There was a dangerous quality to the demon's quiet voice, but even the smell of the thing was making him feel sick. He reached through the bars and grabbed the bag. Azazel smiled down at him, assuming he was cowed. Dean got as much of his arm out of the cage as he could, swung the bag, and threw it as far as it would go. It hit the floor a good ten feet off and skidded towards the edge of the fire circle. Castiel watched it with wide, hopeful eyes, and Azazel let out an angry exclamation. He raised his hand and the bag stopped moving, going flat like a heavy weight had landed on it. Castiel's shoulders slumped slightly, and Dean looked apprehensively up at Azazel. Not only had he refused the 'generous reward,' his manner of refusal had almost done something that made the demon furious. Dean didn't quite know what that was, but the reaction seemed certain.

Yellow irises glared down at him, but then the demon seemed to take hold of himself. "No harm done," he said with a parody of a friendly smile. "Now, it's time for your next procedure."

There had never been an audience before. Dean felt himself start to shake, but he tried to control it, not wanting to make this worse for the poor bastard who was trapped here with him. Azazel opened the cage, and, gulping, Dean crawled out. Azazel seized him by the back of his neck and guided him firmly towards the table. Dean tried to prepare himself for what was coming, but that was made more difficult by the fact that he had no idea what it would be. Thus far, he'd been cut on, he'd been branded, he'd had metal rods hammered into his body at various points and either heated or drizzled with some kind of penetrating liquid. He'd had myriad treatments for any and all of these injuries, some more painful than others.

"What are you doing?" Castiel demanded angrily.

"Preparing my tool for his end use," the demon replied. Dean started to balk. The closer he got to the table, the harder it was for him to even consider obedience. It made no difference. Within moments, Dean had a few new bruises and he was strapped to the table on his back. His chest heaving, he tried to stop himself from pulling at the chains.

"You must stop this now!" Castiel commanded, but it didn't seem to have much impact on Azazel. "I will destroy you."

That would be a trick, Dean thought. A delusion destroying a demon . . . of course the demon could be a delusion, too. He heard an odd spraying sound and looked up to see what the hell could be causing that. When he saw Azazel squirting a gel into his hands, his brows knit. Rubbing his hands together, the demon worked the gel into a foam. Was he going to lose the beard? Dean really hoped so. It was obnoxious and itchy. On the other hand, did he really want a demon using a razor that close to his throat?

Azazel bent and began to apply the shaving cream to the top of Dean's left thigh. Dean craned his neck to see what he was doing. He didn't want a demon using a razor down there, either. "Dude, what are you doing?" Dean asked.

"Letting that soften your hair," Azazel said, turning away. Dean could hear water, like the demon was rinsing his hands in a basin.

"Do not damage him further!" Castiel ordered, and Dean thought it was a good effort. He wasn't going to accomplish anything, but the thought counted.

The demon looked up. "You know, I thought this might be amusing, but I think I'll find your prating more distracting than I can afford under the circumstances. It's not as if I can mend his leg if I make a mistake." He turned around with a straight blade razor in his hand, and Dean felt like his heart was going to stop. Amateur circumcision hour? He didn't want to play.

"Please, don't!" he murmured desperately.

Azazel ignored him. He spoke a few words, waved his free hand, and Dean suddenly couldn't hear Castiel's voice anymore. Glancing over, he could see that his friendly hallucination was still taking, but the sound was gone.

While his attention was on the silent speech, Azazel got started. Dean felt the blade of the razor skim the top of his leg and tried to hold very still. The punishments he'd taken for moving at the wrong times were best not remembered, but he knew he didn't want to experience them again. With agonizing care, the demon shaved the entire top of Dean's thigh, not drawing even a tiny bead of blood. He turned away and came back with a bucket of water which he upturned over Dean's leg. Dean let out a hiss of dismay. The water was ice cold, and he started to shiver.

"Hold still, Dean," Azazel said, placing his hand on Dean's left thigh. "We don't want to have any mistakes, do we?" Dean focused hard on keeping as motionless as possible. Azazel smiled down at him, then looked over at Castiel. "You see, he can be taught."

Dean followed his gaze and saw the angel/hallucination staring inimically at Azazel. If looks could kill, Dean would be tied down without any possibility of getting free, because the demon would be dead and the angel would still be stuck in his little ring of fire.

Then he felt the knife biting into his leg and his face turned upwards. He stared fixedly at the ceiling, straining with every fiber of his being not to scream. Castiel was upset enough.

"You know, Dean, you've been with me for weeks now," Azazel said suddenly, his voice confiding. "And yet there's no sign of your loving family." Dean blinked at the ceiling, wishing he could tune the demon out. The knife made that kind of impossible. "Sammy couldn't wait to get away from you, and your father abandoned you at the first opportunity. I'm all you've got left." The plinking of Dean's blood hitting the trough on the side of the table started then, seeming to punctuate the demon's words.

Dean strained desperately against his desire to move and ground his teeth. His fists were clenched around the chains that held his wrist cuffs attached to the table. "Bite me!" he growled.

"One of these days, I may have to take you up on that offer," Azazel said, sounding amused. The knife left his skin, and Dean knew what he was doing. He was planning the next cut. "In the meantime, we have work to do." The blade bit again, and Dean couldn't help grunting from deep in his throat. And this wasn't even the worst part. As soon as the pattern met Azazel's approval, the demon would begin treatment, packing the cuts with that stuff that burned like acid but worked like glue to keep the wounds closed. He kept his eyes on the ceiling. Closing them only made things worse, and there was nothing else he could do.

* * *

Sam sat up sharply, his heart racing, his breath coming in gasps. He shivered in the chill of the air, his body drenched with sweat. His father slept in the bed next to his, and he seemed to be dead to the world. Light sneaking under the edges of the heavy blackout curtains told Sam that it was daytime, but the room was dim and quiet. As his breathing evened out, he realized that the sound of it had been drowning out traffic noise from the highway. He swallowed uncomfortably and slid out of the bed. He needed a shower and new clothes.

If he was really dreaming what Dean was going through, then he was going to have to destroy that demon. He grabbed his bag and went into the bathroom. After starting the shower, he stripped off, putting his clothes in a neat pile by his bag. When he'd lain down to sleep upon their arrival here, he'd barely taken the time to remove his jacket and shoes. Now his jeans and shirt felt like he'd bathed in them. If Dean was sane at the end of all this, it would be a miracle.

The door opened and his father came in, muttering profanely under his breath. "You okay, Sammy?"

"Fine," Sam said.

"You slept okay?"

Sam put his head under the water to soak his hair. Sighing, he shrugged. "Another nightmare," he admitted.

"And what was this one?"

"Acupuncture." That was how Sam had described the way the demon stuck rods into Dean's body, like acupuncture gone very, very wrong. Sam wasn't sure still how Dean had survived some of the impalings he'd witnessed in his dreams, assuming all the dreams were real.

"Where?"

"Lower abdomen," Sam said. "Three rods in an arc about an inch below his belly button." Sam swallowed, trying to keep his gut in check. "He looks really thin, Dad. Either the demon's not feeding him enough, or he's not eating what he's getting."

"It's probably a combination," John said. "I don't suppose you got any kind of direction with this?"

Sam stopped, staring at the wall of the shower right in front of him. "I don't know."

His father jerked the shower curtain back. "You don't know?" he asked.

"Dad!" Sam exclaimed, outraged.

His father suddenly seemed to realize what he'd done. He pulled the curtain back across. "What do you mean you don't know?" he demanded.

"I . . ." Sam shook his head, lathering up quickly. "It's a dream, Dad, I'm not thinking about using the information later, I'm just very in the moment. Maybe if I could get to one of these visions on purpose, I'd get a better feel for directions or locations."

There was silence, and then his father spoke hesitantly. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Sammy."

"We've got to find Dean, Dad," Sam retorted.

"Not if it's risking you, Sam. Dean wouldn't want that."

"I don't give a damn what Dean would or wouldn't want. We can deal with whatever consequences I have later, once we've got Dean safe." Sam turned off the water, snagged a towel from the rack and wrapped it around his waist before pulling the curtain back again. His father was leaning against the wall of the bathroom. "It's not going to kill me, and anything else we can manage later."

"Absolutely not," Dad growled.

Sam could see he wasn't going to get anywhere with convincing him, so he let the subject drop. Not the idea, just the subject. "What did Bobby say?"

"He wanted you to draw out the shapes of the marks you saw on Dean's body, so he can see what they might mean."

Sam blinked at him. "Okay, I can do that. Have you thought about food yet?"

"I figured I'd go to the restaurant across the way and pick something up. You want lunch or breakfast?"

"Breakfast," Sam said.

"Back in a little while." John didn't immediately go. "We will find him, Sammy. You know that, right?"

"I know, Dad," Sam said, now just anxious for his father to leave. John nodded and opened the door. As soon as he was out of the room, Sam started pulling his clothes on as quickly as he could. Once he was minimally clothed, he left everything else in the bathroom and went to sit cross-legged in the center of his bed. Resting his hands on his knees, he closed his eyes and tried some of the meditation exercises he'd learned at the yoga classes Jessica had basically forced him to attend. That thought made his eyes open, and he had to banish her from his mind before he could calm down sufficiently to concentrate.

Breathing deeply, he focused his whole mind on Dean. That seemed to be what had triggered the other vision, before. Sam sat there, willing the vision to hurry up and come so his father wouldn't come back before he got it. After maybe a minute or two, he shook his head. The yoga crap wasn't working. He needed to think. What was it Bobby had taught them to help them clear their minds in case they ever needed to do a serious working and had the chance to prepare?

He got off the bed, grabbed his dad's keys and went out to the truck to dig around and see if he could find Dad's ritual stuff. It was in the wheel well, under a false panel. Sam pulled out the things he needed, put the rest back and hurried back into the room. Turning off all the lamps, he sat down on the floor and lit three candles, setting them around him in a semi-circle. Then he lit a stick of incense and stuck it in the toothpaste cup from the bathroom. Closing his eyes, he focused on drawing the incense in through his nose and expelling it out through his mouth, ridding himself of negative energy on the outward breath. Then he thought of Dean. For several moments he just hung in limbo, Dean central in his mind, but nothing happening.

Gradually, he became aware of a tug. It felt rather like the one in the subdivision had, only stronger. It pulled him slightly south of due east, and he tried to follow it to its source.


	13. Chapter 13

Carrying a bag with two Styrofoam containers in one hand and a drink carrier with two cups of coffee in the other, John gave the door a kick to get Sam to come get it. There wasn't an immediate answer, and John knit his brows. Sam had been finishing his shower earlier, so where was he? He glanced back to verify that the truck was still where he'd left it. Both his boys were fully versed in the art of hot-wiring, but the truck sat quietly in its spot.

He put down the drink carrier and dug out his key, swiping it to open the motel room door. He preferred motels with regular keys for their doors, not these plastic time keepers. He didn't like having anyone keep track of his movements, but his choices in Graysville had been somewhat limited, especially with Sammy practically comatose in the front seat of the truck.

John pushed the door open a crack and held it that way with his hip while he bent to grab the coffee from the ground. "Sam, what are you –" His words broke off sharply when he saw Sam.

Sammy sat on the floor with his legs crossed and his eyes closed. Three candles sat around him, flickering in the influx of air from the opening of the door. Smoke rose from a stick of incense, and John glanced automatically ceilingward to see if the fire alarm was likely to be sensitive enough to pick it up. Not hardly. A bit of wiring extended down from the ceiling where the alarm should be. Had Sammy taken it down or had it been like that before?

Like it mattered.

He put down both the food and the coffee and strode forward. Blowing out the candles, he stomped on the incense stick and grabbed Sam by the upper arms. "Sam? Sammy!" The kid didn't respond to being shaken, so John stood up, bringing him with him, trying to ignore the flash of fear that twisted in his belly. "Sammy!" Finally, Sam's eyes opened and he started blinking confusedly. "What the hell are you doing?" John demanded.

Sam's eyes focused abruptly. "Finding Dean!" he retorted. "I was almost there, I think, but you –"

"I told you I didn't want you doing that," John growled, shaking his son again in frustration. "Did I stutter?"

"Dad, I just want to find Dean," Sam protested. "It's not like I was in any real danger."

John stared at his son in appalled anger. No real danger? Wasn't Sammy supposed to be the smart one? "Why do you think Pamela was reluctant to help us, Sam?" he asked, gazing at him anxiously.

"Maybe because you pissed her off like you piss everybody off!" Sam returned instantly.

John's jaw set, and his eyes narrowed. Was he being deliberately obtuse or did he truly not understand? Either way, he was being an idiot. "No, Sammy, it's because when a psychic opens himself up like that, it's incredibly dangerous."

"I'm not a psychic!" Sam protested.

John couldn't believe his ears. "If it quacks like a duck and shits like a duck, then it's a duck," he retorted.

Sam's jaw dropped. "I'm a duck?"

"You're a psychic," John said in exasperation. When Sam just stared at him incredulously, he shook his head. "You're having visions, Sammy. That's pretty much the definition."

Sam shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Fine, I'm psychic! You didn't have any problem with asking Pamela to help, and she's psychic."

"She's not my son!" John thundered, and Sam's eyes went wide. John swallowed. That had been a kneejerk reaction, and it surprised him almost as much as it had surprised Sammy. He took a deep breath and sought a more rational explanation. "Besides, she's got a few years of experience on you."

Sam bit his lip, and John could almost see him considering and discarding arguments before his eyes. Finally, he put on an earnest, sincere expression. "Dad, what could possibly be more important than finding Dean?"

It was an argument John had expected. "How about maintaining your sanity?" he countered. "I am not going to sacrifice one son to save the other."

"This isn't a sacrifice, Dad. I want to do whatever I can to find Dean, no matter what it is." He shrugged. "I told you I'd do anything for him. I wasn't lying."

Such casual confidence. Sammy clearly still believed in his own immortality, just like nearly every twenty-year-old kid on the planet. Twenty . . . twenty-two . . . whatever age. He squeezed his son's shoulders. "I forbid you to do this, Sammy," he said finally, and then he let him go.

"How are you going to stop me?" Sam asked defiantly.

John gazed back at him, weariness pulling on his anger and making it feel weak and ineffectual. He shrugged and reached down into the bag for one of the Styrofoam boxes. "Well, at the moment I'm going to offer you breakfast."

Sam glowered at him, but they could both hear his stomach reacting to the smell of toast and bacon. Sam took the box and grabbed his coffee before going to sit on the bed to eat. "We should be using every tool in our arsenal to find him, Dad. It makes no sense to hobble ourselves when we could take advantage of this unexpected ability of mine."

John shook his head. "I don't think it's smart, Sammy. You have no idea how to protect yourself."

"We have to find Dean, Dad," Sam said earnestly. "This bastard's just going to keep cutting on him. God knows what those things do to him!"

John controlled himself rigidly to avoid showing his response to that image. Clearing his throat, he fixed Sammy with a stern look. "That reminds me, what happened to drawing those symbols out? You going to do that?"

"I'd rather present Bobby with photographs, or better yet, Dean, live and in person."

John wanted to say, _you think I don't?_ Keeping his features stern, he said, "When you're done eating, I want you to sketch out those patterns. You hear me?"

Sam closed his eyes. "Yes, sir."

They ate in tense silence for a minute. John had a question to ask, one that Sam was either going to use as a starting point for a new argument or refuse to answer from sheer obstinacy. Eventually, John cleared his throat, and Sam looked up. "So, what did you find out?" John asked, shrugging.

Sam gaped at him for a second, then shook his head. "Southeast. That's it." He scowled. "I could have gotten more if you hadn't stopped me."

"Sam, don't belabor the point."

Sam looked away and finished his breakfast. Then he got up and went to the desk, grabbing his backpack on the way. He pulled out some paper and a pencil and began to sketch. John sat watching silently for a few moments, then reached into his pocket for his phone. Speaking of psychics . . .

* * *

Dean lay as still as humanly possible. Three rods about an eighth of an inch in diameter stuck halfway into his belly. The weird, viscous substance seemed to have mostly dribbled down into his flesh now, so presumably Azazel would come soon and remove them. Then Dean might be able to go back to his cage. It was sad that he longed for that.

The door opened with a slam, and Dean jerked, whimpering when the rods shifted inside him. The demon walked up and, twisting them slightly, pulled the three rods out of Dean and dropped them in a tray on his equipment bench. He then released Dean from the shackles. Dean got off the table as fast as he could, ignoring the pain he caused himself in so doing. Azazel showed no signs of wanting him for anything else, so Dean went over and ducked back into his cage, lying down on his stomach and closing his eyes. A couple moments later, he heard the cage door close and the lock click.

He watched Azazel's feet leave the room and closed his eyes. How long had it been? He hadn't seen the sun in what felt like forever, and without a clock he had no other way of keeping time. He knew Azazel rarely let him sleep for anything like eight hours, and the rooms he was in were never dark. Food came intermittently, unpredictably, and his body had ceased to demand it much, so he didn't have that way of telling time. Even bathroom needs gave him no help, because his water schedule was just as uncertain. One thing he knew. It had been longer than a month. A cut on his wrist that he'd gotten just before the demon suckered him into a trap was almost completely healed now, despite the way the shackles irritated it. So on that Azazel was right. Where was Dad? Surely his father had noticed that he hadn't heard from his remaining son in a while. He felt guilty for even thinking that because he knew Dad would come after him if he knew, but the fact that he didn't seem to know ate at Dean's heart.

Honestly, he'd never expected Sammy to show up, because he wasn't really sure how his brother would know he was missing. After about sixty calls went unanswered and unreturned, Dean had gotten the picture. Sammy was cutting himself off from family altogether. Dean could hate it, he could wish it wasn't so, but he couldn't change it. He'd just have to hope that Sammy changed his mind eventually and keep at least one of the phone numbers his brother had for him active . . . pretty much for the rest of time. Not that the rest of time was looking too terribly long for him right now. And his phones might well all have lapsed if it had been more than a month. More than two months? More than three months? He didn't think it had been as long as a year, but if Azazel came up and told him it was 2007, he'd probably believe him.

"Dean!" He blinked in puzzlement. His delusion seemed to be calling. Maybe he should answer it. Maybe not. He lay still, wondering what his delusion wanted. "Dean?"

"What?" Dean muttered into the mattress.

"We must talk."

"Talk about what? How screwed we are? I already know. Been there, done that, don't want the t-shirt."

The delusion fell silent and Dean was good with that. He tried to achieve sleep, but it was eluding him. Then he heard a noise that made him freeze. The click of the lock. After a moment, he rolled carefully up and looked at the latch. It was lifting. Dean raised his head and stared at the delusion. Castiel seemed to be focused on the latch. The door suddenly popped open, and Castiel's eyes shifted to Dean's face.

"Please come here, Dean."

Dean stared at the open door to the cage, his mouth going dry. If Azazel came back and found him out of the cage, he'd be livid. And that thought strengthened his backbone. He'd be damned before he let fear of Azazel govern his actions that completely. He crawled out of the cage and walked as swiftly as he was able over to the fire circle. "How'd you do that?" he asked.

"Can you find something that would allow you to put out the fire?"

"What? Why?" Dean asked. His mind wasn't feeling very quick at the moment. He looked down at the flames. They reached about the level of his knees and seemed to have no fuel source whatsoever.

"Because if the flames were out, even a small section of them, I could get us both out of here."

Dean looked up from the fire. "Both?" he repeated.

"Yes," Castiel said. "I would not leave you here." Dean stared at him, unable to get past the combination of the words 'both' and 'out.' "Dean!" Castiel exclaimed. Dean blinked, looking into his delusion's eyes. Castiel gazed intently at him. "You must focus."

"Right." Dean started looking around. The bathroom door was beyond the door to the room, and that was firmly latched. "Can you open this?"

"No," Castiel said. "It's too far away, and I can't see the workings."

Dean nodded and continued to search. The beaker with his lost blood was gone, and so was the water that Azazel had cleaned the shaving cream off with. He walked back over to the fire. "I'm not seeing anything. Can it be smothered?"

"It can," Castiel replied.

"Let me see if I can get the mattress."

"Dean, you're bleeding."

"I don't need treatment," Dean said, his heart leaping into his mouth. "I can't do it. I can't."

"I will not force treatment on you," Castiel said, and Dean felt himself relax just slightly. Then he heard the lock on the door to the room open. He whirled around, but he'd grown lightheaded with the unaccustomed exercise. His balance went, and he started to fall over backwards. The fire was directly behind him, and Dean was going to land right across it. Hands caught his shoulders and drew him swiftly over the fire. He felt the flames lapping at his skin, but it didn't burn him at all.

The door opened and Azazel came in. The demon stopped, staring at the open cage, and then he looked towards the circle of fire. "I see we've been busy. Aren't you a resourceful little pigeon? Stealing other people's toys."

"He is not a toy," Castiel said, his voice low and intense. Cradled in the delusion's arms, Dean could feel the vibration as he spoke. "And I have heard that possession is nine-tenths of the law." Castiel sounded odd saying that, but it did fit the situation, sort of.

"Dean, come out of there, now." The whip crack of Azazel's voice made Dean jerk upright. He tried to get to his feet, but Castiel held firm. "Dean, now. You know what'll happen if I become displeased."

"Please, let me go," Dean murmured to Castiel. "It hurts. I can't – it hurts."

"Calm yourself," Castiel said.

Azazel began to mutter the words Dean knew too well. He didn't know what they meant, but he tensed in momentary expectation of pain. When nothing happened, Dean looked over at Azazel. The demon was staring at him, anger churning in his eyes. He raised a hand towards them, and Dean flinched backwards. His delusion drew him closer in his arms. Dean didn't know what to expect. In a loud voice, Azazel began to chant. "Omnipotentas de potestatum invoco." Castiel tensed, and Dean looked up anxiously. Castiel looked worried, which made Dean's stomach twist. "Omnipotentas de potestatum invoco," Azazel said again. "Aborte terrar, nunc angelo ominum sequentum." Castiel's body relaxed very slightly, and his expression changed from worry to curiosity, then to satisfaction. "Domine –" Azazel broke off. "Well, this is singularly pointless. However have you managed it?"

"I believe you will have to come within the circle to achieve your goal," Castiel said, and then he smiled. "Please do. I will be ready for you." He looked ready for a brawl.

"You can't keep him in there forever!" Azazel growled. "He'll have to come out eventually, for food and water if nothing else."

"I would rather he died here with me than see him suffer further in your hands," Castiel said.

Dean blinked up at him, stunned by the sudden change in circumstance. "Okay," he said, nodding. "I'm good with that."

"Do you want me to go get Sammy, Dean?" Azazel said. "Would you rather I played with him for a while?" Dean took in a deep breath and tried again to pull away from Castiel.

"You will not torture Sam Winchester," Castiel said with such conviction that Dean turned to stare at him again. "It would defeat your purpose."

"What do you know of my purpose?" Azazel demanded.

"Enough," Castiel replied.

"Let me go. I can't risk Sammy."

"I will not release you, Dean," Castiel said. "Sam will be fine. You must trust me."

"I don't know you," Dean replied.

"What do your instincts tell you?"

"I can have Sammy here in a matter of moments," Azazel said.

"I can't let him do that," Dean said, twisting and trying to get free. He could feel his injuries opening up against the cloth of the trench coat.

"It will not happen. Have faith."

That appeal to his instincts had fallen on fertile ground. Dean trusted Castiel on an unexpectedly deep level. He tucked his head against the other man's chest and hoped that he was doing the right thing.

Dean noticed a dark patch on the tan fabric and struggled to focus his eyes on it. There was blood on Castiel's trench coat, and the stain was gradually growing larger.


	14. Chapter 14

Sam put aside the third sheet of paper and began another drawing. He hated this. He wanted to be up and doing, not sitting here, making sketches of injuries that his brother was currently suffering the pain of. His father was on the phone with Bobby, trying to get him to get Pamela to do another read on the car. Sam found it difficult to reduce the horrible, gaping wounds in Dean's body to simple lines and patterns that Bobby could research and find in books. They were cut into human flesh. They were cut into Dean's flesh. Dean, who never did anybody a really bad turn, unless you counted the girls he picked up in bars, and Sam always figured they couldn't actually be expecting anything long term from that kind of pick up.

His head had started to ache slightly, and as the pain increased, he decided to grab an aspirin. He started to get up, but just then the pain hit for real. He fell to the side of the chair, his knees hitting the floor before he ceased to be aware of the room he was actually in.

Sam saw a cinder block building that looked dull and squat on a piece of ground that was overgrown with weeds and bushes. It had a red shingle roof that had seen better days, and in the distance, Sam could see tall buildings. A recognizable skyline, in fact, with the sun setting behind it. Birmingham. Suddenly, flames started licking out through the doors and windows of the building in front of him, and he heard Dean's voice screaming inside.

"Sam? Sammy!"

Sam shook his head and looked up at his father's face. "Birmingham, Dad. They're in Birmingham." Within moments, they had their stuff gathered up, and they were moving.

"What else did you see?" John asked.

"It was cinder block," Sam said. "On an overgrown plot of land. I didn't see much of anything around it, but there was a clear view of the skyline in Birmingham."

"From what direction?" John asked.

Sam blinked and thought about it. "From the north. Outside town, but close enough to see it."

"Anything else?"

Sam grimaced. "The building caught on fire while I was watching, and I could . . . I heard Dean screaming." The engine growled as John's foot bore down on the accelerator. "Should I call Bobby? Tell him what I saw?"

"Yeah."

Sam made the call on his father's phone. He hadn't taken the time to put Bobby's number in his own phone yet. "Yeah? What you got, John?"

"It's Sam. I had another vision."

"Really?"

Sam described it again, and Bobby started making thoughtful noises. "I'll get back with you," he said. "You should be in the vicinity in no time, though. Give me ten minutes and I'll call you back." Sam nodded and hung up the phone.

"What did he say?"

"He asked me to give him ten minutes and he would call me back." Sam abruptly noticed that they were coming up to a junction. "Head towards 59, Dad," Sam said.

"Why?"

Sam couldn't put his real reason into words. "It's north."

John shrugged and got in the right lane. Sam prayed he was right, prayed that Dean wasn't going to be badly burned in the fire, prayed that Dad's reckless driving wouldn't get them stopped. He definitely didn't want him to slow down. He was confident now that his father could handle these speeds, and the faster they got there the better. Bobby called. "I don't have anything too specific yet, but I said I'd call in ten minutes."

"Right, Bobby," Sam said. They were approaching an exit, and Sam said, "Dad, get off here, and turn right at the bottom."

Both Bobby and John spoke at once.

"Is Bobby telling you that?"

"I didn't say that, Sam."

"It's a hunch," Sam said, and John screeched across three lanes of traffic to reach the off ramp.

"Try getting your hunches a little earlier, would you?" John grumbled.

"Sure, Dad, I'll get right on that."

"Where are you?" Bobby asked.

"South Highlands," Sam said.

"I'll narrow my search to that vicinity," Bobby said, and then he hung up. Sam put the phone down and watched the roads, waiting for the direction to come from within.

* * *

Dean had noticed something, cuddled up to his delusion. His body hurt less. As time went by, the relief from pain made tears well up in his eyes. He buried his face in Castiel's chest and tried not to shiver with the cold that seemed to be growing. Castiel detached Dean's hand from his coat, and Dean grabbed at him, seizing hold of the shirt beneath the trench coat.

"This is all very sweet, but when Sammy shows up, you're going to wish you'd listened to me, Dean."

Dean ignored him, and snuggled closer, wishing that Castiel could block voices out, too. He felt the trench coat settle around him and opened his eyes in surprise. Castiel tucked it around him, and the body heat it still had left together with the sentiment that made his companion give it up to him warmed Dean to the core of his being. Trying not to cry was now a lost cause. Hot tears dampened Castiel's shirt, and Dean kept his face hidden because he didn't want his weakness to be seen.

"You know, Castiel, it seems to me that Heaven has abandoned you," Azazel said. Castiel didn't speak. He didn't even seem to acknowledge the demon's words. "Shouldn't someone have shown up by now? To rescue their misplaced foot soldier? Or are you AWOL?"

"I don't understand your reference," Castiel said calmly.

Noises came to Dean's ears. The silence in this place had been absolute, and he was aware that Azazel had some way of blocking the passage of sound or Dean's screams would surely have brought people running. Nevertheless, he now heard noises that were not caused by any of the three people he could see. Azazel seemed to hear them at the same moment, and he turned, looking startled. That was a sure indication that it wasn't someone he'd sent for, and Dean felt hope. Brief, fleeting hope that was almost more painful than despair. He closed his eyes tightly and burrowed in more deeply.

"That will be the Winchesters," Castiel said, and Dean refused to acknowledge the statement mentally.

"I will destroy them."

"Perhaps," Castiel replied, and Dean sensed something like amusement in his tone. "But the hunters have the Colt."

There was dead silence in the room for a moment, and the sounds of people searching the building could be clearly heard. "So be it!" Azazel said, and Dean heard a strange roaring sound, and then a rush of welcome, blessed heat. Castiel drew him closer still, and he faded from consciousness, feeling as if someone had finally turned on the furnace on a cold day.

* * *

Sam had recognized the building from the road. At his startled cry, John had pulled off, and they had geared up to investigate. "I don't see any fire, Sammy."

"Yeah, well, the dream about the demon moving Dean happened before he was moved," Sam had replied. "Pamela saw his location hours later." The psychic had done another read of Dean's car, and her vision had dovetailed with Sam's perfectly. It hadn't changed Sam's confidence level any, but it had boosted his dad's.

They'd gone into the building together, picking the lock on the front door. It appeared to be some kind of assembly hall for a Moose or Elk type of club. Sam was gazing into the bathroom where the mirror above the sink had been removed when he heard a roaring whumpf. He withdrew hastily from the bathroom. "Dad?"

His father emerged from some sort of office space. "That sounded like a gas explosion," he said, eyes wide. "That way."

Sam kept his weapons at the ready, though he had no reason to believe that his gun would have any effect on a demon. He had to do something. His father led the way to the pair of double doors that stood directly across from the entrance. Not wanting to leave threats behind them, they had checked out the rooms on either side first.

Easing one of the doors open to peer in, John let out a curse and flung it wide. Inside, the room was a positive inferno, and they could both hear a voice from beyond the curtain of flames. "John! Sam! In here!" The voice was entirely unfamiliar, but Sam didn't pause. Evading his father's grabbing hand, he plunged through the veil of fire and into the middle of the conflagration. Most of the flames were around the edges of the room. A table Sam recognized from his nightmares was burning fiercely, and he couldn't regret the loss. On the far side, he could see a man who looked vaguely familiar. He knelt on the floor, Dean cradled in his arms. His brother's face was turned towards the man's chest, and blood stained the tan fabric that he was wrapped in.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed, starting forward, but his father sprinted past him, coming to a stop at a line of fire that stood between them and the pair.

"Why are you just sitting there?" John demanded. "Get him out!"

"I cannot," the man said, nodding towards the short flames that blazed between them. Sam noticed abruptly that, amid all the chaos, there was a perfectly symmetrical ring of fire around the strange man and Dean. The clear implication was that the man couldn't pass over those flames.

Ignoring his father's exclamation, Sam dodged through them, feeling heat lick at his legs as he passed through. The stranger gave Dean up to him willingly, and Sam kept the fabric wrapped around his brother as he lifted him. Dean's eyes were closed, and he seemed to weigh far too little in Sam's arms. He pulled the trench coat more tightly closed as he started to turn. Trench coat. Sam looked up to stare at the stranger, then turned to his father. "Dad –" There was a crash as a beam from the ceiling came down behind them. Sam ducked over his brother, automatically trying to protect him.

John's expression was just shy of frantic. "Take your brother outside as fast you can!" he ordered. "Don't look back. Now Sam! Go!"

When his father spoke like that, Sam couldn't ignore him, and for once the orders made sense. He heaved Dean into the best position he could find and took off running, dodging falling and fallen debris as he went. The flames had spread from the hall into the foyer now, and Sam turned sideways to take the front doors on his shoulder. Then he was out in the cool of the early evening. He got far enough away and lowered Dean gently to the ground, kneeling beside him. Even unconscious, the lines of pain etched into his brother's face showed clearly. Sam wondered how Dean could ever be whole again after this.

Taking a deep breath to help keep himself calm in the light of what he knew he'd be seeing, he opened the trench coat to assess the damage. His brother's torso was a mass of open, oozing wounds, slowly staining the tan of the trench coat red. The shapes were familiar to him from his nightmares, and Sam felt tears overflow his eyes, cutting tracks through the dirt and soot on his face. He looked up to see how his dad was taking this sight and realized that his father hadn't come out of the building yet. "Dad!" he yelled desperately, unable to abandon his brother. "Dad!"

Sirens could be heard in the distance, and for once in his life as a hunter, Sam welcomed them. He dragged his sweatshirt off over his head and applied the fabric to the spot that seemed to be bleeding the most profusely. Dean twitched and moaned as Sam pressed down to stop to the bleeding. Sam's heart ached at the sound, but he didn't dare let up. The sirens were closer now, but no one had come yet. Where were the damned paramedics? This couldn't be dealt with in a motel room with a few stitches; Dean needed to be seen by professionals. A fire truck drove by on the street, then turned into the parking lot. Professionals meant police, which meant they had to have a story. Which meant he'd better concoct one now, because he'd never been good at the impromptu lie. He gazed down into his brother's face, trying to invent something that would hang together and last under long term scrutiny while tears poured unheeded down his face.

Firemen came running by, dragging hoses past where Sam was attempting to staunch Dean's blood, but two of them stopped nearby, staring in shock at the bloody figure on the ground. "What the hell?" one of them demanded. "What's going on here?"

"We need an ambulance!" Sam exclaimed, and he didn't have to fake the near panic in his voice. "My brother, he was attacked, and my father's still inside!"

At that moment, John came out, coughing and choking, into the cool night air, relieving Sam's mind on one point. One of the guys who'd stopped to stare at Dean ran off to help him away from the fire. The other was on a radio, asking dispatch to send an ambulance immediately. There were so many bleeding cuts that Sam couldn't apply pressure to them all, and that wasn't even addressing the ones he knew were on Dean's back.

Once the call was made, the fireman squatted down beside Sam and took the medical kit someone ran up to him. "What happened?" John had been sat down on the ground nearby, an oxygen mask over his face. Sam was glad, because that meant that he'd hear the story Sam was telling and would thus not be out of the loop when someone asked him. They could keep their fictions straight.

"Dean," Sam nodded towards his brother, "disappeared about two months ago. Dad reported him missing, but the cops wouldn't do anything, said he was old enough and had probably gone off on his own." The fireman nodded. "Dad started tracking him, and he figured out that he was taken by these bizarre cultists for some insane reason. He didn't have any proof, and he didn't feel like getting blown off by the cops again, so he picked me up from school and we came looking." A sob tore through his chest, and he forced himself back under control. "And this is how we found him. Cut to ribbons inside a burning building!" He glanced at his father and found the older man's expression to be as worried and anxious as his own.

More sirens wailed in the night, and a group of curious onlookers had gathered at the edge of a line that had been established by the firemen and cops who had arrived since the first group. A trio of paramedics ran up and pushed Sam aside. He stood and stumbled a few feet sideways, still watching Dean's face. He scrubbed at the tears on his cheeks, no doubt mixing them into mud with the ash and dirt that coated him.

The paramedics didn't seem to have any outward reaction to the horror of Dean's extensive injuries. "His name is Dean," he blurted, because they were talking to him despite his obvious unconsciousness. Without a pause to note him or any sign that they'd heard him at all, they shifted from 'sir' to 'Dean.' Hands fisting and unfisting as he stood helplessly by, he watched them work. When they thrust his sweatshirt aside as no longer necessary, Sam bent without thinking about it and picked it up, twisting it in his hands.

A man put a hand on Sam's shoulder, and he turned, tearing his eyes away from his brother. "Please, sir, come and sit down," the man said. He appeared to be another paramedic, and there were two more with his father. "We need to get a look at your legs," the paramedic continued.

Sam shook his head. "I'm staying with my brother."

"Once he gets to the hospital, he'll go straight into surgery," the man said in a tone of calm persuasion. "You won't be able to stay with him then, so please, just –"

Sam pulled his shoulder out from under the man's hand. "I'm riding with him to the hospital," he declared. "They can see to me there if they need to." After that, he ignored the paramedic, who shrugged and returned to his team. They were getting John strapped to a gurney, an oxygen mask held over his face. Sam met his father's eyes and saw the approval in them. Dad nodded shortly, and then they were wheeling him away. Sam stayed close to Dean, and when they were ready to load him up, he climbed in beside the paramedics. No one objected as the doors were slammed shut behind him.

"Will my father be taken to the same hospital?" Sam asked belatedly.

"We're taking you all to St. Vincent's East," the man across from Dean said. He was fitting Dean with an IV. "Do you know your brother's blood type?"

"A neg," Sam said, and the man nodded. He selected a bag of blood from a refrigerated locker and started transfusing. Sam wondered helplessly how much of it would just come pouring out again through the open wounds. The paramedics had parted Dean from the trench coat, so he lay naked on the gurney. He was pale under the blood that covered him, and his cheeks seemed somehow gaunt. His ribs stuck out more than they should, and his knees seemed more knobbly. How had Sam missed that in his dreams?

"He's lucky to be alive," the paramedic said. "How are your legs feeling?"

Sam looked down at his legs for the first time and hissed. His jeans were scorched and burned away in places, revealing reddened and blistering skin underneath. He hadn't felt them at all till this point. "Fine," he said, gritting his teeth. "Just focus on Dean." They looked at him worriedly, but they didn't pursue the subject.

The trip to the hospital didn't take very long at all, and once they were there, the paramedics sprang into action, wheeling Dean away into the depths of the emergency room. Sam followed as far as he could, wishing he could tell Dean that he was safe, that his family was there, and that they wouldn't let anything bad happen to him ever again. A woman caught his arm, and he heard her tell him to stop. He didn't fight her, just stood and stared at the double doors that marked the limits of his access. Tears continued to stream down his face. The woman left him then, and Sam swallowed hard on his sobs, trying to control himself.

A few moments later, a nurse took hold of his arm and led him over to a cubicle.


	15. Chapter 15

Bobby paced uneasily. He hadn't heard from Sam or John in over an hour. "They're all three alive, Bobby," Pamela said for the fifth time. "Stop worrying."

"How the hell can I do that?" Bobby demanded. "All alive means is that they could still be suffering. If they were caught by that damned demon, he could be getting his jollies out of torturing all three of them in front of the others."

"Don't borrow trouble," Pamela said.

Just then, the phone rang, and Bobby snatched it off its cradle. "Hello?"

"Bobby." It was John. His voice sounded gravelly and tired, but oddly happy. "We found him. He's alive, but he's in surgery. He was . . ." John's voice broke and he didn't speak for a moment.

A new voice took over. "Bobby, Dean's been cut up pretty bad, and the doctors tell us it looks like none of the wounds ever closed properly," Sam said. He sounded strangely calm. "They've got the blood stopped, but his blood pressure keeps dropping, so they're not sure exactly what's going on. I asked them if they'd considered internal bleeding, but they said they can't open him up with his blood pressure so unstable."

Bobby absorbed that. Dean was alive, but it didn't sound like he was anywhere near out of the woods. "How are you and John?"

"Dad's suffering from smoke inhalation and some second degree burns. I got a little burned on my legs, but I didn't really breathe enough smoke for there to be damage."

"Sam, are you on drugs?"

"Morphine," Sam replied. "I –"

Bobby heard an exasperated female voice in the background. "Mr. Winchester, you need to get back in bed."

"I'm talking to my uncle," Sam said.

"Get back in bed," the woman ordered. Bobby heard the phone being moved around, then the woman spoke directly to him. "Hello? You're Sam's uncle?"

"Bobby Singer," Bobby said.

"My name is Martha. Your brother and nephews have all been admitted to St. Vincent's Hospital in Birmingham, Alabama."

"Their condition?" Bobby asked.

"I should have a social worker call you," Martha started, but Bobby shook his head.

"Tell me their condition, please!"

She sighed. "Both John and Sam are stable – stay in that bed, young man. John has second degree burns and is on oxygen for smoke inhalation. He should be released tomorrow or the next day unless there are complications. Sam has second degree burns on his legs. We expect to release him in the morning."

"And Dean?"

"I really can't answer that. Give me your number, and I'll have someone call you."

"St. Vincent's?"

"St. Vincent's East Campus."

Bobby nodded. "Thanks." He gave her his number and hung up.

"I told you they were all alive," Pamela said, and he gave her a squinty-eyed look. After a moment, she raised her eyebrows. "Well, how are they?"

"John and Sam have been burned, but they should both be released tomorrow. Sam said that Dean's been badly cut up, but the nurse wouldn't tell me anything about his condition. Said she'd have someone call me."

"That doesn't sound good," Pamela said, and Bobby grimaced his agreement. "Do you want to go out there?" she asked.

"I don't know that they need me there," Bobby replied indecisively. "And they may very much need me here."

"Research?" Pamela asked, and Bobby nodded. "Okay, since you don't have anything to go on right now, why don't we have some dinner? And maybe some fun?"

Bobby closed his eyes. Had he ever been that young? "Honestly, I'm not sure I'm up to fun after the past couple of days."

"Well, dinner then," she said, her eyes full of promise, and Bobby knew she was going to try for fun after. They went into the kitchen and Bobby got a roast out of the fridge, potatoes and carrots out of the larder and started a pot roast going. Pamela poured them both some wine, and Bobby recognized the early stages of trying to get him interested. He played along, letting her rub his back and ply him with booze. Maybe some fun would do him some good.

After about eight, he decided to take matters into his own hands. It seemed unlikely that a social worker would call him this late, and he wasn't waiting till tomorrow. While Pamela was in the bathroom, he called information for Birmingham and got the number for St. Vincent's, East Campus. He called and negotiated the bureaucracy till he got someone who both could and would answer his questions. When he'd heard the news, he hung up the phone and sat back, deeply disturbed.

According to the woman he'd spoken to, Dean had lost a lot of blood, and they'd finally had no choice but to do exploratory surgery in his abdominal cavity where they'd found several sources of internal bleeding and inflammation. They'd gotten things stitched up and cleaned out, and his blood pressure had stabilized, but he remained in intensive care. Bobby inferred from the careful way she put things that survival was not by any means guaranteed.

"So, what'd they say?" Pamela asked, sounding resigned.

He sighed. "Dean required exploratory surgery to stop internal bleeding, and he's intensive care."

"He's alive," she said.

"Can you tell me for sure that he'll stay that way?" Bobby asked, glaring at her.

She drew back, looking faintly alarmed. "No, no one can." He looked away. Dean was such a good kid. This just wasn't fair. She walked over and put her hands on his shoulders, digging her thumbs gently into the tense muscles there. "You just gotta take what you got and live moment to moment. There's no way to know what's coming."

"I know," Bobby said, reaching up to catch her hand in a gesture of apology. "I just – it's hard."

"Look, Bobby, if you're worried that he's gonna die and you'll never see him again, buy a plane ticket. Otherwise, don't bite off more than you can chew."

Bobby shook his head, then pulled her around to sit in his lap. "You're right," he said. He cupped her cheek and pulled her close. "You can be one smart lady, sometimes."

"I know. I'm just glad you noticed." She draped her arms around his neck and snuggled close, evidently grasping that what he needed most right now was contact and comfort, not carnality. Though maybe they'd have some of that later.

* * *

Sam signed the last document, dotted his I and crossed his T, and then said, "Where is my brother?" His legs hurt, but he didn't give a damn. He wasn't going to let anyone keep him away from Dean a moment longer.

"In ICU." She gave him directions, and he strode off. After only a few steps, he had to moderate his pace. One of the cops had kindly brought the truck to the hospital, so he'd been able to redress himself in decent clothes, but jeans were a little rough on the healing skin. Maybe he'd have to invest in a nice, soft pair of sweats.

At the ICU, there was no person to greet him. He picked up the phone that was labeled, "Call for admittance." It started ringing immediately and a woman's voice answered. "ICU Nurse's Station."

"I'm here to visit Dean Winchester."

"Are you family?"

"I'm his brother," Sam said.

"I'm opening the door. Come to the desk for your visitor's badge."

Sam hung up and walked over to the double doors. The electric lock gave way, and he walked inside. He went up to the nurse's station, and a middle-aged lady with a few extra pounds on her looked up at him. "Mr. Winchester's brother?"

"Sam." He looked up and down the rows of glass-fronted rooms. "Where is he?"

"Please sign in here and wear this badge visible on your person."

"Okay," he said. He put his name and the time down on the log and took the badge. "Where is he?"

"Room 11."

Sam turned away and looked at the numbers above the doors. He walked straight down to the room and stopped in the doorway, his heart thudding in his chest. Dean was pale, and his eyes were closed, and there were spots of dry blood on his hospital gown. His hands lay limp and empty on the bed at his sides. He looked unnaturally still, but Sam could see him breathing. Gulping, Sam walked into the room and sat down in the chair beside the bed. Dean looked no better from this angle than he had from head on. Sam shifted the chair around so that he was looking at Dean's face. After a few moments, he reached out and took his brother's hand, thinking he might need the contact.

Dean's hand moved in his, and Sam leaned forward. "Dean?"

His brother's eyelids fluttered, and then he opened his eyes and stared at Sam. "Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean, it's me."

"Oh, crap," Dean muttered. "I'm still hallucinating."

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed. "You're not hallucinating."

"Sammy's at school. Azazel said so, so you have to be a hallucination."

"Demons lie, Dean," Sam protested.

"So do hallucinations," Dean said, and Sam gaped at him. "Got you there, don't I?" He seemed to notice the fact that Sam was holding his hand. "Hey, hallucination, hands off."

"If I'm a hallucination, I'm not touching you," Sam replied sarcastically. Dean blinked at him, clearly a little uncertain about how to react to that. "Got you back, Dean."

"I want my other hallucination back," Dean said. "He was nicer."

"What other hallucination?"

"Castiel," Dean said. "I mean, as hallucinations go, you're a definite improvement on wacko demon guy."

"Dean, I came all the way across the country to help Dad get you out of that demon's clutches, and you're calling me a hallucination."

"Yeah, see, that's my point," Dean said. "Sammy wouldn't come across the country for me. He wouldn't even come across the state."

"Dean, you don't really believe that," Sam exclaimed quietly.

"He won't even return my calls, fake-Sammy. If you were real-Sammy, you'd be curled up with your cute little girlfriend, making cute little plans for law school and a whole big long life in which you pretend your family doesn't exist."

Sam couldn't fathom that Dean really believed all of that, but he supposed it was his own fault if his older brother thought that poorly of him. "Dean, it's not like that, okay? As soon as I heard you were missing, I was ready to do whatever it took to get you back."

Dean's eyes widened. For a long moment Sam thought he was going to believe him, but then he shook his head. "My hallucination would say that, because it's what I want to hear, but it's not true. I'm not stupid, even if I think I am."

"What?"

"Well, if you're a hallucination, you're a part of me, which means I clearly believe I'd fall for something that idiotic."

"Dean, you're not stupid." Dean rolled his eyes. "You're goofy," Sam huffed. "You can be idiotic, but you're not stupid."

Dean's head came up off the pillow, and he gazed at Sam for a long moment. "Sammy?" he said finally, his voice low and hopeful.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam said, immeasurably relieved that he'd finally gotten through.

Dean stared at him a little longer, then rested his head back on the pillow, looking fixedly at the ceiling. "I gotta stop believing in hallucinations." He sounded so pathetic and forlorn that Sam reached out and started stroking his overly long hair. Dean swatted at the hand and glared at him. "Hey, hey! Personal space, dude, even if you are a hallucination."

Sam gave him an exasperated look. "If I'm not even here, how can I be touching you?"

Dean's brows lowered. "Now you sound like him," he growled. "Why would I hallucinate you at your most annoying?"

"Because you're not hallucinating me, Dean," Sam retorted. "I'm really here, annoying you in real time."

A pretty young nurse walked in and started checking on Dean's bags and monitors. She smiled down at him. "Mr. Winchester, you're awake."

"Am I?" Dean asked, eyeing the young woman appreciatively. "I thought maybe I was in heaven, and you were an angel. The kind that doesn't wear trench coats."

She laughed. "My name is Maureen, and I'll be looking after you this shift. How do you feel?"

Dean shrugged, and his face twitched in a wince that made Sam anxious. "With my fingers," he said.

Maureen looked at him with pursed lips. "Are you in any pain?" she asked.

"Yeah, I guess," Dean said after a second where he clearly contemplated being the macho stoic.

"On a scale of one to ten, how high would you rate the pain?"

Sam waited for his brother's response. Dean looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, "Two, but I think my scale is probably a little skewed."

Maureen's eyes warmed. "I can understand that. Let's try this, how do you think you would have rated the pain you're in right now before all this happened?"

Dean looked even more thoughtful, and Maureen exchanged a worried glance with Sam. After a moment, Dean said, "Maybe a five or six," he said.

"Okay," Maureen replied, and Sam could hear the deepening sympathy in her voice. "I'm going to up your morphine a bit."

"Awesome," Dean said. Sam watched her reset the electric meter.

"This will probably make you a little sleepy," she said, and Dean smiled.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you're cute when you get medical?" he asked, and Sam rolled his eyes. Tortured halfway to death, and Dean still hadn't changed, at least not on this subject.

"You really are an inveterate flirt, aren't you?" Maureen asked, amused.

Dean grinned, then his eyes went a little vague. "What's inveterate mean?"

"It means you do it all the time, Dean," Sam said in an undertone.

"Oh." He looked up at Maureen. "Yeah, I'm that. Thanks fake-Sammy." And just at that moment he drifted off. Maureen turned to look at Sam.

Sam shook his head. "It's nothing. He thinks I'm a hallucination."

"Is he hallucinating?" she asked.

"No, I'm really here," Sam replied incredulously.

Maureen shook her head, looking faintly exasperated. "No, I mean, is he hallucinating anything else? Does he have a reason to think he's hallucinating you?"

Sam blinked, feeling stupid. "Oh, right . . . um . . . he didn't mention anything else," he said. He grimaced. "And he hasn't seen me in more than a year."

"I see." She checked a couple more monitors and then started to go.

"He's going to be okay, isn't he?" Sam asked.

She turned back around. "He's doing really well right now," she said, and he could sense the hedging.

"Is he going to be okay?" he asked a little more firmly.

She pursed her lips. "Look, I'm not his doctor, so I can't really comment on prognosis."

"Who is his doctor, then?" Sam asked.

"His attending is Dr. Markell," she said. "I can get him a message that you'd like to talk to him."

"Please, that would be great."

She nodded, put a hand on his shoulder and then left. Sam looked at his sleeping brother with a mixture of guilt and despair. He kept on holding Dean's hand and wondered what he'd have to do to convince his brother that he wasn't a product of his imagination.


	16. Chapter 16

John wheeled into the ICU and up to the nurse's station. There was a woman of about forty behind the desk dressed in brightly colored scrubs. She gave him her attention, and he said, "I'm John Winchester, here to see my son, Dean."

"Of course, sir." She gave him a guest badge and said, "He's in Room 11. Your other son is with him now."

"Good," John said as she started to turn away. "Miss?" She turned back, her eyebrows quirking. "Can I talk to the shift supervisor?"

"Is there a problem?" she asked.

"Not that I'm aware of," he replied, and she looked stymied, like she wanted to know what he wanted with her supervisor before she went and got her supervisor. He remained silent, and she walked away, grimacing.

A few moments later, a younger woman approached him. She looked no more than twenty-five, but John guessed she was probably older from her rank, if nothing else. "Hi, I'm Beverly. Josie said you wanted to talk to me?"

"Yes, I thought I should let you know a few things about my son so that you're prepared."

Her eyebrows went up and she nodded slowly. "Like what?"

"Dean has extensive martial arts training, and he's been through hell, as I'm sure you can imagine." She nodded, concern etched in her face. "It would be best if either Sammy or I was with him all the time because he's liable to panic around strangers."

"Under the circumstances, I'd want family around as much as possible anyway," she said, glancing towards Dean's room. "We try to stay flexible when it comes to our visitors policy, because, quite frankly, we're here to help the patient get better, and different people need different things." She nodded. "Now, I was in there a few minutes ago, and I believe that both your sons are asleep."

John nodded, glad that he hadn't had to argue harder to gain his point. He pushed himself into the room and found Sammy sitting at the side of the bed, his head pillowed on his arms. His boys, together again. The family, together again. He sat in the wheelchair the hospital had insisted he use and watched his boys sleep. Dean's eyes flipped open, and he looked over at his brother. Sammy had his arms crossed on the bed and his head resting on them. John was pretty sure that he'd gotten no sleep during the night despite the morphine they'd put him on. Morphine had never knocked Sammy out, though. It had always had almost the opposite effect.

He almost couldn't believe that he was sitting here this close to Dean, who was safe if not sound. He grinned. "Hey, Dude, you're awake."

Dean turned his head, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets. He seemed a bit at a remove from himself and the world around him. "Dad, hey," he said with a faint smile. "What's going on?"

John felt tears stinging in his eyes. "How are you feeling, son?"

He watched Dean think about his answer and ached for the pain he could see in every line of his son's expression. Finally, Dean's lips twitched. "With my fingers," he said.

John remembered that answer. He'd given it many a time over the years. He couldn't suppress a chuckle. "And your toes, right." Dean gave a sort of eyebrow shrug, his lips grinning faintly. John chuckled. "Seriously, Dean, how are you feeling?"

This time Dean actually shrugged with his shoulders, and then he winced. John knew that all those cuts, on his belly, on his sides, on his back, had to hurt every time he moved. His hand moved towards his son, but there was nothing he could do. Dean gave him an ironic look. "Fantastic," he said. There were times when John wished Dean hadn't taken the stoic thing he'd taught him so much to heart. Dean's eyes widened, and he started to push himself up to a sitting position. "Dad? What happened to you?" His eyes were on the wheelchair, and the steady beeping of the heart monitor began to increase in speed. John could see his son's arms shaking, and a sheen of sweat broke out over his face.

John leaned forward. "Lie down, son." If he said it was to protect Dean, he knew he'd have no chance of getting through. "You'll wake your brother."

Dean glanced over at Sammy and blinked. His arms suddenly gave way, and he thumped back to the surface of the bed, grunting slightly.

A nurse who looked way too young to be out of college hurried in to slide between John and Dean. "Dean, honey, please stay lying down. You're not in any condition to sit up at all."

"What's wrong with my dad?" he asked anxiously, his voice hoarse.

The nurse glanced back towards John. "Nothing much," she said, winking at him. Then she leaned closer to Dean and spoke confidentially. "We're just keeping him because Dr. Gordon thinks he's hot." John didn't snicker. Dr. Gordon was sixty-year-old woman with a ring and a no-nonsense attitude. He had a feeling she'd be startled by this portrayal.

"Dude, my dad's not gay," Dean protested.

"Neither is Dr. Rebecca Gordon," the young nurse replied, her voice very amused.

Dean's eyes widened. "Oh." He glanced over at John, then back up at the girl. "Awesome." Trust Dean to find that awesome.

The nurse checked Dean's readings and made sure that his blankets were smooth and neat. "So, stay lying down, would you?"

"Sorry, I just got worried."

"I understand, but we're all really worried about you."

"Me? I'm peachy."

"Sure you are, but could you play along a little, for my benefit? I've got to seem to be working, here."

"Sure, Maureen," Dean said, and then he shrugged again. His whole face tensed, and John saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

"How's your pain? Give me a number between one and ten again, from your pre-skewed scale." John found that kind of an odd qualifier, but he listened to hear Dean's answer.

"Sometimes it's kind of hard to remember," Dean said, and his voice was a little weak. "I mean, it's been . . ." He paused and glanced over at John. "Dad, how long's it been?"

"About two months," John said, his heart twisting at the lost look in his son's eyes.

Dean's eyes widened, and John noticed that the nurse looked horrified. He nudged her with his foot, and she glanced over at him. He raised his eyebrows and she wiped her face blank, replacing the horror-stricken expression with a smooth professional look.

"Two months," Dean said slowly, as if tasting the concept. "Shit."

"Try if you can manage it, Dean," Maureen said. "One to ten?"

Dean blinked. "Maybe a three. The morphine's really doing it for me."

"Let me know if it goes any higher, okay?" Dean nodded, and Maureen gave John a look that suggested that he should speak up if he thought Dean was being stoic. He nodded, too, and, seeming satisfied, she took her leave.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"What happened? Where's . . . where is . . ." Dean's voice trailed off, and John took a deep breath to control his own emotions. "How'd I get here?" Dean asked finally.

"Your brother and I tracked you down to a little place on the outskirts of Birmingham. The bastard set fire to the place and left when he heard us coming, I guess."

"You and Sammy?" Dean asked, glancing towards his sleeping brother. "You mean he's real?"

"Did you think he was made of Styrofoam?"

"No, I thought he was a hallucination. Like the angel."

John blinked. "Angel?"

"Well, that's what the other hallucination said he was. Castiel."

John glanced up to see if anyone was listening. He leaned closer to Dean. "Let's not talk about Castiel, okay? Not till we're out of here, at least."

Dean blinked at him. "Yes, sir."

"And your brother is definitely not a hallucination." John reached out and touched Dean's arm. "Can't you feel the weight of him on the bed with you?"

"I could be hallucinating that, too," Dean said. "He doesn't have to be real just because I can feel him."

"Well, he's real. You remember carrying him out of the fire?" Dean's eyes went wide and dark, and he nodded. "Well, now he's done the same for you."

Dean glanced at Sammy again. "I'm a little big."

John chuckled. "Sammy's bigger than he used to be." Dean's eyebrows went up. "He grew at college."

"How much?" Dean asked.

"As I recall, when he left he was just about your height." Dean nodded. "Well, now he's at least a couple inches taller than me."

"Crap!" Dean exclaimed softly, looking at the long, tousled brown hair on the bed. "He's huge." John nodded. "How'd you get him to leave Stanford?"

"I told him his brother was missing."

"And he came?" Dean asked, looking startled and exceptionally vulnerable.

"Dean," John said, appalled even though he'd thought the same things. "Your brother loves you."

Dean's face screwed up in an expression John interpreted as disbelief. "Dad –"

"Seriously, Dean. He's kind of an idiot, but he –" Tears abruptly started to streak down Dean's cheeks. John broke off speaking and shifted from his chair to the side of the bed. Once there, he was stymied. There was something terribly wrong about not knowing where he could touch his son without hurting him. Dean couldn't sit up, but he rested his head against John's leg, and John put a ginger hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, son. You're with your family, and we'll take care of you." One of Dean's hands came up and fisted in John's shirt, and John felt tears coming to his own eyes. He leaned down and rested his forehead on his son's. It was kind of an awkward position, but neither of them minded that.

John felt a hand on his back and knew that Sam was awake. They stayed in that position for a while, John had no idea how long. If anyone came in, they didn't interrupt the tableau. When John realized that Dean had fallen asleep again, he drew back. There were tear tracks on Sammy's cheeks, too. "What happened?" Sam asked.

"I told him you were real."

Sam stared at him. "Seriously? That's what this was about?"

"He didn't believe you'd come," John said. He was about to explain to Sam that he had serious fences to mend, but Sam barely seemed to notice that he'd spoken.

"So he still thought I was a hallucination?" John shrugged apologetically. Sam shook his head. "Not only does he think I'm a hallucination, but he wants the other one back."

"Castiel?" John asked.

"The guy in the circle," Sam said. "Did you notice that he was the man from the freeway?"

"Yes, Sam," John replied, glancing around. "But we don't need to talk about him here."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, looking thoughtful. "Okay," he said after a moment. "And I know he didn't think I'd come. He told me . . ." Sam's voice broke and he looked away for a moment. Mastering himself, he went on. "He told me – me the hallucination, mind you – that his brother would be curled up with his cute little girlfriend making cute little plans for law school."

"Hell, he is not going to react well to that news," John said, blinking.

"I didn't even know he knew anything about her," Sam said. "Did he tell you about her?"

"He was actually pretty thrilled, but I assumed he'd met her." John considered that. Dean must have been watching Sammy off and on for the past few years. It didn't surprise him, but it did make him feel a bit of anger towards his youngest son for cutting Dean out of his life so brutally. He suppressed it. Now wasn't the time.

"For all I know he did," Sam said. "He could have introduced himself in a bar or something. None of the photos I have show him any older than fourteen, and he changed a lot between fourteen and twenty-two."

"That's true," John admitted. "Why didn't you have any later photos?"

"Because I took what I could and left, Dad. You weren't really in the mood to open the family photo album and share."

John sighed. There had been mistakes on both their parts back then, and it looked like Dean had gotten caught in the crossfire, like always. "Well, no point in rehashing old news."

Sam pursed his lips and nodded. John could tell that he wanted to say more, but he was holding it in because of the circumstances. All of which probably meant that he should take Sam aside and get the explosion over with outside of Dean's presence. How that was going to happen right now was beyond him, though. "So, now what?" Sam asked, his voice still kind of rough from crying. John looked up at him, not sure what he was asking. "He's still out there, just waiting to get a chance to finish the job."

Ah, yes, that had occurred to John as well. "First off, we don't leave him alone for five minutes at a time," John said. "One of us has to be on duty twenty-four/seven."

"Not sure how the hospital will feel about that," Sam said, glancing towards the nurse's station, clearly visible beyond the glass wall of the room.

"They'll deal with it," John said quietly. "But they haven't shown any signs thus far of wanting to throw us out."

"Sooner or later, they're going to want to put you back to bed," Sam said.

John fingered the hospital bracelet on his arm and nodded. "That's true enough, I suppose."

"And I'm not sure how long they'll let me sleep here."

John glanced at Dean's face to make certain he was still asleep. "Sammy, your brother was tortured, and I've explained to the staff that he has military-style training in martial arts. They're going to want one of us around all the time, anyway, just to calm him if he gets upset."

Sam blinked. "I hadn't thought about that."

"Gotta warn doctors and nurses about that kind of thing, otherwise they run the risk of getting seriously damaged," John said. "It's bad enough when an ordinary person becomes confused and violent. When someone with the training you two have does, it can be catastrophic." Sam's jaw tensed and John could tell there were things he wanted to say. He knew his son, he was thinking how angry he was that he wasn't normal. John had never figured out a good way to explain to his sons that normal wasn't safe for them, or at least not one that convinced Sammy. Dean had always listened to him, always understood what he said.

John realized suddenly that they were sitting there, on either side of the bed, filling the small ICU cubicle with tension and he consciously relaxed his shoulders and let out a deep sigh. "You make a good point, though," he said, and Sam's eyebrows went up. "You need the kind of rest you can only get in a real bed, and I can't be in here all the time." And he didn't want Sam staying in any motel rooms alone, but he didn't voice that reason aloud. "Hang out here for a while, and if your brother wakes up, tell him I'll be back shortly."

"Where are you going?"

"Don't worry about it," John said. He caught a flash of rebellion in his younger son's eyes as he wheeled his chair out of the room. He rolled over to the nurse's station and asked to borrow the phone for a credit card call. The staff all seemed to be very sympathetic towards them. He wasn't really used to that. Usually when he brought himself or someone else into a hospital, they all looked like they'd been involved in some kind of fight, and the reactions of the staff varied from wary to the edge of hostile. Being the devoted father of a torture victim who'd been attacked through no fault of his own appeared to make quite a difference.

He went through the rigmarole involved in charging the call to his card, then waited for Bobby to pick up.

"Singer Salvage." It was Pamela's voice.

"Where's Bobby?" John asked.

"John, how are you?"

"I've been worse," John said, glancing back into the room where Sam sat beside his sleeping brother, holding his hand. "But I really need to talk to Bobby."

"All right, just a minute."

John waited impatiently for Bobby to come to the phone. He must have been out in the yard somewhere. "John, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," John said. "Nothing new, at any rate." He paused, part of his mind telling him that he didn't need any help, that he shouldn't get anyone else involved in family business. The logical, strategical part of his mind overrode that basically emotional reaction with the stern fact that they needed tactical support.

"John, are you sure you're all right?" Bobby asked, sounding worried.

"I'm fine. Bobby, if I made the arrangements, could you fly out here?" For a long moment, there was dead silence on the other end of the phone line, and John wondered if he'd actually gone too far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, readers, any thoughts on what's causing Bobby not to answer right away? The answer is already written, but I'm curious what folks think. :)


	17. Chapter 17

Bobby couldn't believe his ears. John Winchester, asking for help. At least that's what it sounded like. "Look, Bobby, if –" John sounded uncertain, and Bobby realized that his astonishment had let the pause drag on too long.

He cleared his throat. "Sure, John, what do you need?" he said.

John's voice was back to relaxed confidence. "Back up, mostly. We don't want to leave Dean alone, and Sam and I are already running on fumes."

"Right," Bobby said, and he could see John's point. For one thing, the kid had been attacked and tortured and would need a friendly face nearby, and for another, only a friendly face was likely to be able to coax him out of panic if he got freaked out. Bobby was frankly honored that John asked him. "But honestly, it's gonna take less time if I drive, and I'll be able to bring a hell of a lot more with me."

"Right, that works," John said. "Just get here as soon as you can. Please."

"Sure, John. No problem." Bobby hung up and shook his head. He'd never had John say please to him over something important. Passing the pepper, sure, but not over something that mattered. He trotted up to his room and started packing clothing for the road.

"What's up?" Pamela asked, walking in.

"John wants me to come help him and Sam keep Dean-watch at the hospital."

"I thought you wanted to wait here to do research if it was needed."

Bobby shook his head. "If John asked me to come, he needs me. I'll take what books I can, and there are people I can get information from if I need it."

Pamela pursed her lips, and Bobby could tell she'd rather he didn't get any further involved. After a moment, though, she shrugged. "Look, I can pack you up some clothes and stuff. You go get your books together."

Bobby was surprised by her willingness to help even to that extent. "Thanks," he said, and he hurried downstairs.

* * *

With some difficulty, John managed to turn himself back around. He was tempted to abandon the wheelchair, but this visit had only been allowed based on his willingness to use the damned thing. As he rolled back towards the room, he realized that Sam was leaning over the bed, and Dean appeared to be twitching in his sleep. He picked up the pace a little, coming to a stop at the foot of the bed.

"It's me, Dean, it's Sammy, you're safe," Sam was saying in a low voice, and John got the impression he'd said it several times. He stroked his brother's forehead, leaning close, and Dean seemed to be gradually calming down. His eyes flickered open briefly, he looked up, and then he closed them again, finally going still.

One of the nurses came in and walked up to the side of the bed, scanning Dean's monitors. "Did something happen?" she asked.

"I think he was having a nightmare," Sam said.

"What did you do?"

"I just talked to him," Sam replied. "And put my hand on his head."

"Well, it seems to have calmed him," she said with a smile. "So I'd say it's a good thing you were here." She made a few notes on Dean's chart and then left again.

"You okay, Sammy?" John asked. Sam gave him a dubious look. "I meant are you holding up okay."

"Best I can." He looked at his father. "When did they say they were going to release you?"

"Tomorrow, if I haven't developed any complications," John said. Sammy's eyes widened and looked even more anxious. "But I'm fine, Sammy. Don't worry."

"Mr. Winchester?" said a low voice. Both of them turned to see Maureen in the doorway. "Sorry, Mr. Winchester senior." John nodded, and Sam looked at him apprehensively. "The police are asking for you in the waiting room."

"Right," John said. "Sam, stay with Dean. If they ask for you, just tell them you won't leave your brother till I come back, okay?"

"Sure, Dad," Sam said.

Maureen took over pushing the wheelchair. "Don't worry, Mr. Winchester. We'll make sure one of you is with him at all times."

"Thank you," John replied, startled both by the help and the assertion.

"Someone should be waiting for you outside," she said, and there was. They made the hand off, and John tried not to feel like a football being passed between two young women.

As they approached the waiting room, John could hear a voice speaking. ". . . need to know what happened."

"I'm sorry, he's not in any condition to speak to anyone," said another voice. "Not for another several days, at least. We haven't stabilized his blood pressure yet, and we may have to operate again. The last thing we need is for him to get worked up."

John raised his hand and the young woman pushing him stopped. He glanced up, but since she didn't seem likely to give him away, he continued to listen.

"Whoever did this to him is still out there, Dr. Markell, and he could be getting ready to do it to someone else."

"Then you'll have to find him without speaking to my patient," the doctor said firmly. "What he needs right now is care and the support of his family."

"You let me know the minute he's ready to talk to us, doctor."

"Certainly, Agent Denson. Now, if you don't mind, I've got work to do."

"Can you find out what's keeping the father? I didn't figure you'd let me talk to the victim, but I had to try."

John looked up to the girl behind him and nodded. She gave him a smile and pushed him around the corner. Dr. Markell, recognizable chiefly by the white coat he wore, turned and gestured towards him. "I think he's here. Mr. Winchester, I'll be in to talk to you about your son's condition later."

John nodded and gave his attention to Agent Denson. His minder pushed him to a spot near a chair and a table, then put her hands on his shoulders. "I'll be back to check on you soon," she said, and then she left.

"Mr. Winchester, I'm Special Agent Calvin Denson, FBI, Birmingham Field Office," the man said, settling down on the chair. He gestured towards a young woman who was standing nearby. "And this is Agent Haynes. How are you feeling?"

"I've felt worse," John said frankly. "What can I do for you?"

"You could start by explaining what happened yesterday," Denson said.

John shrugged. "I found my missing son," he said. "Have you been in touch with the police in Beatrice, Nebraska?"

"Not yet," Denson replied.

"Well, that's where I filed my missing person's report and was informed that a twenty-six-year-old man is not considered a missing person without compelling evidence." John smiled thinly. "My evidence wasn't compelling enough, I guess."

"What made you think he was missing?" Denson asked.

"I couldn't find him," John replied. "His cell phone rang straight through to voicemail, which isn't like Dean. He always answers unless he literally can't. I tracked down where he'd been last and found his car in an impound lot, almost all personal possessions removed."

"I see. Is that all?"

John shrugged. "Dean would never leave that car behind. She's a '67 Chevy Impala, and he keeps her in top condition, and . . . well, he basically grew up in that car, so she matters to him."

"Grew up in the car?" Denson asked. "Were you homeless?"

"We didn't ever have a fixed address for too long," John replied. "But not homeless, per se. We didn't actually live in the car, but it was the only constant feature of our lives."

"I see." Denson glanced back at his partner as if to make sure she was taking proper notes. "So, when the Beatrice police refused to investigate, what did you do?"

"I followed the trail as best I could," John said. "I'd found a little more evidence that Chief Jones found just as inconclusive."

"Yes?"

"Dean always wore a necklace, a kind of good-luck charm, that his brother gave him for Christmas when they were boys. After that Christmas, I never saw him without it. I found it jammed in the rail of the seat, the cord broken, with blood on it."

"Where is the necklace now?" Denson asked. Haynes was writing.

"My son Sam has it," John said.

Both agents looked up in surprise. "We'll need it for evidence," Denson said.

"It's been washed and restrung," John replied, and Denson's eyes widened. John shrugged. "The police weren't interested, and I had no idea just how awful this thing was at that point. I just knew there was no way Dean would have left the car or the necklace behind voluntarily." He shook his head. "Besides, Dean will want it back when he wakes up." Denson glanced over at his partner, who nodded, put her pad away and walked towards the ICU. John scowled at her back as she went.

"Where is the car?" Denson asked.

John turned back to face him. "I shipped it to a friend in South Dakota."

"You did what?" Denson asked incredulously.

"He has a salvage yard, and I knew he'd store it for me." Denson was still staring at him with an appalled look on his face. John glowered back. "What else was I supposed to do with it? I already had my truck, and do I have to say it again? The cops weren't interested. I sent it off and drove as fast as I could to California because I knew Sam would want to be involved, and since he was pre-law at Stanford, I figured he might be of use." That was a blatant lie, but John didn't think Denson had any way to find that out. John hadn't known what Sam studied at Stanford till they'd talked, and the primary reason he'd gone after him was to be sure that the demon hadn't done something to him, too. John shook his head. "Look, it doesn't really matter. We figured out that these cult guys had taken him, and we weren't sure what was up with that, so we traced them to Graysville, and then to Birmingham."

"Why do you think it was a cult?" Denson asked.

"Did you see what they did to him?" John exclaimed. "Who the hell else would do something like that?"

"I haven't actually seen it yet," Denson said. "The doctors won't let us in to see him, and there haven't been any photos taken at this point."

John shuddered. Sam's descriptions of his dreams had been vivid, but they hadn't prepared him for the reality. "He has shapes carved into his skin." The detective's eyes widened. "It's extremely disturbing, and I can't imagine it's anything . . . it's got to be a cult." There, he sounded like a properly hysterical parent.

"We'll need to get the car, too. Can you give me the number and address for your friend in South Dakota."

"Robert Singer," John said. He reeled off Bobby's address and then added, "But he's not there now."

Denson looked up from his writing. "Where is he?"

"On his way here."

"Sir, I can't get the necklace," Agent Haynes said, and both men looked up at her.

"Young Mr. Winchester won't give it to you?"

"It's more complicated than that," she said. "Sam already gave it to Dean, and the nurses won't take it away from him." John found this mildly surprising, and Denson looked startled. Haynes shrugged. "Evidently he became hysterical when they said he couldn't wear it for fear of infection, so they submerged it in iodine and rubbing alcohol, cleaned it, then strung it on something sterile and let him wear it."

"We're done," John said. If Dean was hysterical, he wasn't going to stay away a moment longer.

"He's calm now, Mr. Winchester," Haynes said.

John looked up at her. "Are you a parent?" he demanded. She shook her head. "Come back and talk to me when you've had kids." He started to roll forward, but the chair was driving him nuts anyway. He stood up and started walking.

"Are you supposed to be out of the chair?" Denson asked.

"No," John growled, but speaking while walking irritated his already raw throat. He began to cough and had to support himself with a hand on the wall.

Abruptly he had Denson beside him and the wheelchair was behind him. "Sit down, please, sir," Denson said. "Or they'll run me out of the hospital on a rail."

John sat down, but he gave Denson a mild glare. "I'm failing to see the downside of that."

"Sir, I'm just trying to help."

"Two months too late," John said.

"Let's get you back to the ICU." John relaxed and let the other man push him physically now that he was done pushing him investigatively. No doubt that would come up again, but for now the FBI agent had accepted that they were done. He clearly wasn't happy with the holes in the story, but John didn't care. He'd avoid filling them in as long as he could. If it came down to it, he could always say he'd consulted a psychic. The kind of man he looked like wouldn't want to be known to have done that.

Denson contacted the staff of the ICU and got John back in, but he promised to be back to see him soon. John smiled grimly and rolled himself down to room 11. True to Haynes' word, Dean was calm. In fact, he was asleep. Sam, on the other hand . . . tears streamed down his face, and his hands were clenched so tightly in his lap that they were shaking.

John left the chair behind and hurried over to his youngest son. He knew that posture. "Sammy, open your hands," he said in a quiet voice, taking Sam's wrists and holding them. "Come on, son, you're hurting yourself."

Sam tried to pull his hands away. John released one of his son's hands and pulled him closer. Sam held himself rigid, his head turned away. "I know, Sammy," he murmured. "I know."

Sam pulled away and stood up, turning his back on John. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, and John knew that amount of restraint just had to hurt. Sam rubbed his forehead with his palms and then looked down at his hands in shock. John knew what that meant. He turned around and caught Maureen's attention. When she walked to within hearing distance, he said, "Sam's gouged holes in his palms. Can I get some Band-Aids or something?"

Maureen's eyes went wide, and then she glanced around. "In that drawer over there," she said, glancing towards a cart at the side of the room, "there's some gauze and tape, and some alcohol that I'm not allowed to use on anyone who's not currently admitted to the hospital." She raised her eyebrows, and John nodded his thanks. She went about her business, and John went to the cart and got the stuff he needed.

"Sammy?" John said, putting his hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam shook his head. "Let me bandage you up, Sammy." Sam turned around finally, his face streaked with tears, his eyes desolate. He shook his head again, and it was clear to John that he didn't want to speak for fear of making too much noise. "Sit down, son. Let me help –"

John guided his son towards the chair, but Sam miscalculated and sat down too soon. He went down like a rock and landed on his butt on the floor. John followed him down and pulled him into his arms, deciding that bandages and bleeding could wait on comfort. Sam resisted for a moment, but then he just gave way, burying his face in his father's chest and shaking with immense but still silent sobs. John held him close, rocking him very slightly, astonished that Sam was letting him do that much. Footsteps entered the room and paused, then whoever it was did what she'd come for and left again. John was grateful that she hadn't interrupted, despite the fact that they had to be in the way.

Sam clutched onto him for longer than he would have expected. The interruption that finally did occur, came not from the nurses, but from the bed. "Okay, now I know I'm dreaming," Dean said hoarsely. "Nothing in the universe could make that happen." Sam broke away from John and looked up, eyes red rimmed and forehead still streaked with dried blood. Dean's eyes widened. "Sammy, what happened to you? You okay?"

Sam just looked confused, and that made Dean start to try and get out of bed. John jumped up and pushed his son back down. "Sam's fine, Dean, he just did that thing I used to do sometimes." Dean's brows were knit, and John heard his heart monitor speeding up. "You know, with my hands. Just relax. I'll take care of him."

Dean nodded, but he didn't stop looking anxiously at Sam's head. Maureen came running in. "Mr. Winchester, what are you doing?" she asked.

"Dean tried to get up," he said, stepping back.

"Dean," the nurse exclaimed. "You can't do that."

"Sammy's bleeding," Dean replied. "Somebody's got to do something about it." John turned around and got his younger son sitting down in a chair. Sam moved like an automaton almost, and John thought it was because he was strangling his reactions to the point of complete withdrawal.

"Your father will take care of Sammy," Maureen said.

"Since when?" Dean asked, sounding irritated. "I take care of Sammy."

This interchange had sufficiently distracted John that he hadn't noticed when Sam started paying attention again. "I'm okay, Dean," he said. "I just cut up my hands a little. Dad's got it."

"Why is there blood on your face, then?" Dean demanded.

"Don't get up, Dean," Maureen said.

"Because I rubbed my forehead before I realized I was bleeding," Sam replied. "Don't be an idiot, Dean. Stay lying down. Dad's got it."

"You sure, Sammy?" Dean asked.

"It's all good, Dean," Sam said. "Maureen, tell him I'm okay, can't you?"

"He's fine," Maureen said obediently. "And trust me, if he was really hurt, I'd be taking care of things myself. You need to lie down and let us take care of you."

Dean seemed to be relaxing, and Sam tapped John on the arm, giving him an expectant look. John snapped out of his stupor and shook his head, then started cleaning Sam's hands off. Sam took one of the bits of gauze John had wet with alcohol and started wiping his forehead clean. Pointing, he asked the question 'is it gone?' with his eyes. John took the gauze patch from him and finished the job, then tossed it into the medical waste bin. Sam had really gouged himself good in a couple of spots.

"How long have I been in the hospital?" Dean asked.

"Not even a full day," Maureen replied. "But don't worry, we're taking very good care of you."

"Oh, I'm sure you are," Dean said, and his tone was almost flirty. "I just wish I felt good enough to take full advantage of that."

"That's very sweet, but I think my husband might object."

"Lucky man."

Maureen laughed. "He seems happy enough," she said. "Now, stay in your bed, young man. The doctor will be in shortly, and if you damage yourself, he'll be annoyed with me."

"I'd tell him it wasn't your fault," Dean said. "We could always lay it on Sammy."

"Hey!" Sam exclaimed in outrage.

"Bitch," Dean said, giving his brother a half-lidded look.

"Jerk," Sam replied, and John rolled his eyes. If he had a dime for every time he'd heard that interchange, he wouldn't need fake credit cards.

There was a pause, and John looked up from his bandaging to find Dean staring at his brother. "Sammy – it's really – you're really here?"

"Did you really think you could imagine anyone as cool as me?" Sam asked.

"Cool?" Dean repeated with a bark of laughter that only sounded a little forced. "Sammy, you are not cool. You have never been cool, but I guess I'd have a tough time imagining anyone as geeky as you."

"Ha ha ha," Sam replied. Not the most inventive comeback of the year, but John figured it was the best they could manage under the circumstances. Maureen nodded at John and then left again. "Dean, you were missing. Once I heard, there was no way I wouldn't have come to help."

"You should have stayed home safe with your girlfriend," Dean said, and John thought he actually meant it. "Dad, he shouldn't be here."

"Home with my girlfriend wasn't actually all that safe," Sam replied.

"Even if she was an abusive bitch, which I happen to know she isn't, staying with her would have been a hell of a lot safer than coming after a demon."

John cleared his throat, and Sam looked at him uneasily. "Dean, Jessica was possessed." Dean's eyes opened wide, but he didn't say anything. "I exorcised the demon, and she . . ." He trailed off, not knowing quite what to say to the astonishment in Dean's eyes.

"The real Jessica was never even involved in the relationship," Sam said. He was looking down at the bandages on his hands. "She barely even knew my name."

Dean's heart monitor started speeding up again, and his breathing shortened. "Dad!" he gasped, his eyes seeking John's with heartbreaking desperation. "Get him out! Get him safe!" He grabbed for John's arm. "Do you –" He stopped and shuddered, and the room was invaded by tense, purposeful individuals. They politely evicted Sam and John, and other staff got them moving out of the ICU altogether. In short order, they found themselves in the hallway outside.

"Dad, what did we do? What's wrong with him?"

Before John could even formulate an answer, the double doors flew open again, and they were forced to stumble back out of the way. John caught himself against the wall and started coughing. Dean went by on his bed like lightning, and John heard someone talking to Sam, but he couldn't really hear what was said. This was nuts! He wanted some way to snap his fingers and fix Dean, but that wasn't possible. He focused on gaining control of his coughing, but pain in his throat and sinuses had been gradually increasing over the past few hours. He'd tried to ignore it, hoping it would pass, but it didn't seem to be.

"Dad?" Sam sounded worried, and John shook his head to tell him he was fine. He heard Sam talking a little ways away, and then he heard the doors open again. Someone else and Sam got John back into the wheelchair and then more purposeful young people came and carried him off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you asking, I promise that Cas will turn up before long. Worry not!


	18. Chapter 18

Sam stared dumbfounded as the staff pushed his father away in the wheelchair in the opposite direction from where they had taken Dean. He started to follow, but Dad turned before he'd gone more than two steps. "Stay with your brother," he said, his voice hoarse, and then he was gone. Sam took in a deep breath and started off after Dean. It took him a few tries, but he found the surgical waiting room and sat down, wondering if Dean was going to make it this time. That thought, that very idea, terrified him. Cutting Dean out of his life had seemed so easy before, but the idea of him being just gone, forever, was beyond Sam's ability to imagine.

He realized now that his insistence on keeping Dean at arm's length hadn't had much to do with Dad at all. It was because Sam knew that the only one who had even the smallest chance of convincing him to go back was Dean, and he was afraid that he wouldn't be able to hold out against his brother. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to keep from crying.

"Mister?" Sam opened his eyes and saw a little girl standing in front of him. "They gots Kleenex if you want it," she said, pointing at a rather generic-looking box of tissue that sat on the end table. "I could get it for you."

"Thanks," Sam said. He hadn't realized he was crying, but the little girl walked over and picked up the Kleenex. "Where's your mom?"

"In there," she said, pointing at the doors that led into the surgical suites. "My daddy's over there." She pointed at a man who was changing a baby.

"You know, you probably shouldn't talk to strangers," Sam said, accepting the tissue from her. The man taped the last corner of the diaper down and looked up. A panicked expression took over when he realized that the little girl wasn't with him. "Sir?" Sam said, raising his voice slightly, and the man turned to see them. He picked up the baby and walked over to take charge of the little girl.

Barely giving Sam a look, the man took her hand. "Bethie, you can't wander off like that. Who knows who that man could be?"

"It's okay, Daddy, he told me not to talk to strangers."

The man threw a harried glance back at Sam when she said that, and Sam shrugged apologetically. He put the tissue box on the next seat over and ran his hands through his hair. Dean couldn't die. He simply wouldn't accept the possibility. That settled, he concentrated on not pacing. Someone came after a while and told him that his father was fine, that he had just needed more concentrated oxygen and rest to recover fully from the damage he'd taken from smoke inhalation. He nodded and returned to not pacing.

His hand reached up automatically to grab the talisman because he'd been using it like a worry stone since he'd put it on after restringing it on Friday. It was gone, of course, Dean had it. His fist clenched around the missing amulet, and he leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

_Sam held his brother's hand and hoped the police weren't being dicks. That could wind up with his dad getting arrested, and they really didn't need that right now. Dean's hand tightened on his, and then he started twitching again. Sam stood up and leaned over him to see if he could get him out of whatever dream he was stuck in. He reached down and stroked his brother's forehead because that had soothed him earlier._

_Dean's eyes snapped open. "Didn't I say hands off, fake-Sammy?"_

_"_ _I reiterate, if I'm fake, then I'm not –"_

_"_ _Where'd you get that?" Dean demanded, and Sam saw that he was staring at the necklace that had fallen free of his shirt._

_Pulling it off immediately, he said, "Dad found it in the Impala. I was just wearing it till we found you." He grinned, because Dean's eyes never left the little pendant. "Here, let me –" He started to put it around Dean's neck, but before he could, a voice from the doorway interrupted him._

_"_ _Where did that come from?"_

_Sam looked up to see a woman in scrubs standing there. "It's Dean's," he said, nodding towards his brother._

_"_ _He wasn't wearing it when he came in?"_

_"_ _No, I – it was left behind when he was grabbed," Sam said. "I've been wearing it, but he should have it now."_

_She smiled sympathetically but shook her head. "He has open lacerations on his chest. Unless it's completely sterile, it's an infection risk. For now, I think you'd better keep it."_

_Sam started to draw the necklace away from Dean, but Dean had his hand closed around it. His eyebrows had drawn together, and he gave Sam a pathetic, almost desperate look._

_"_ _Isn't there some way he could wear it?" Sam asked. Dean turned his gaze on the nurse._

_"_ _It's really unwise for him to . . ." Dean's monitors started to speed up._

_"_ _No," Dean said, gazing at her, his expression close to panic._

_"_ _Dean, maybe we should –" Sam said, but Dean jerked his fist with the amulet in it closer to his chest._

_"_ _No!" he said more firmly, gazing up at Sam. "Sammy, please don't let her take it!"_

_Sam swallowed a lump in his throat and turned towards the nurse._

_She glanced back and forth between them and said, "I'll be back in just a minute. Don't let him put it on just yet."_

_Reassured by the use of the word 'yet,' Sam nodded. He turned towards Dean as she left. "It will be okay, Dean. No one's going to take it."_

_"_ _She wanted to," Dean protested._

_"_ _No, she just wanted me to keep it for you."_

_"_ _She doesn't want me to have it."_

_"_ _It will be okay, Dean. Trust me."_

_"_ _But you're fake."_

_Sam shook his head. "Dean, if I'm fake that means the amulet is fake because I have it." Dean's fist tightened around it and his eyes widened. Sam heard the monitors speed up again. "Dean, it's okay, it's real and I'm real." Sam felt tears coming to his eyes and ground his teeth as they started to fall. Embarrassed, he turned his head away._

_A hand on his arm made him turn back, and he found a worried-looking Dean stroking his arm. "Sammy, you shouldn't be here."_

_"_ _I'm not leaving, Dean."_

_"_ _Here," said the nurse, re-entering the room. She carried a tray with one of those ubiquitous green dishes, a length of fine tubing and a couple of squares of gauze. "Let me see the necklace," she said, putting the tray down on the over bed table._

_"_ _No!" Dean exclaimed. "You can't take it."_

_"_ _I'm not taking it, Dean," she said soothingly. "I'm just going to clean it so it won't make you sick."_

_"_ _Sammy?"_

_Between them the nurse and Sam got the over bed table positioned. "You can watch me do it right here, Dean. Is that okay?"_

_A couple of other nurses had come to stand in the doorway, including Maureen. "Sammy, keep an eye on her," Dean ordered._

_"_ _I've got it, Dean," he said. "Let go. I promise, I won't let anyone take it."_

_After a second, Dean released the pendant. "Okay."_

_Sam handed the little thing over, and the nurse snipped the shoelace and handed it back to Sam. He stuffed it in his pocket. She dunked the pendant into the dish, and Sam devoutly hoped that it wouldn't dissolve the metal. The nurse wiped it with the gauze and let it soak for several seconds. Then she pulled it out and dried it carefully before stringing it on the tubing. "There, clean and sterile. Ready to be worn."_

_Dean stared at it with naked hope and anguish in his eyes. "Sammy, put it on for me."_

_"_ _Dean, her hands are cleaner than mine, I don't want to risk infection." At the look Dean shot him, Sam turned towards the nurse._

_"_ _Rinse your hands in here," she said. "Then dry them on this." Sam followed her instructions and then tied the tubing around Dean's neck._

_"_ _There, Dean."_

_Dean reached up and touched the pendant on his chest. "Now I feel more like me again," he said._

_Sam felt tears coming to his eyes again, but Dean didn't notice. He smiled up at Sam, and then he drifted away again. Between morphine and the obvious adrenaline crash, he was gone within seconds. The gathered nurses departed and Sam sank down into his chair, struggling to control incipient hysteria so that he didn't freak Dean out._

And then Dad had come in and Sam's freak out had eventually woken Dean anyway.

A male voice broke in on Sam's thoughts. "Is Dean Winchester's family here?"

Sam got to his feet and turned towards the voice. It was a black man who looked around thirty. He had short hair, a pleasant manner, and his badge identified him as a nurse. Sam walked over to him. "I'm Sam, his brother."

The man nodded. "My name is Brian, and I've been asked to come out and update you on your brother's status."

Sam raised his eyebrows, his heart thumping in his chest. "Okay?"

"Dean is still in surgery."

"What happened?"

"You were told that he has internal injuries? Punctures and lacerations?" Sam nodded. "Some of them opened up, and they're having trouble finding them all. He's holding his own so far." Sam gulped. 'Holding his own' was code for 'it's not going well, but the patient is still alive.' "He's a fighter."

"Yeah, he is," Sam said. "Do they know when he'll be out?"

Brian shook his head. "I don't have an answer for that, but we'll keep you posted."

"Did someone go talk to our dad?" Sam asked. "He's in room 432, and he'll be worried, too, but he wants me to stay here."

Brian nodded. "I'll have someone go tell him," he said.

"Thanks, man," Sam said. "I know it probably sounds pretty wacko, but –"

"Please, Sam, don't worry about it. It's not a big deal."

Sam knew it was quite likely that the minute he was behind closed doors this guy was going to start talking about those crazy Winchesters, but he appreciated being humored at the moment. "Thanks." Brian left, and now Sam couldn't keep himself from pacing. He knew he had to be annoying other families who were waiting for their loved ones to come out of surgery. An older couple who arrived shortly after Brian left watched him in irritation. Brian came back twice to talk to him over the next several hours, and then he came to talk to the older couple. They left with him, and at that point, Sam saw the woman give him a sympathetic look. Evidently, whoever they were waiting for wasn't taking as long as Dean. A couple of other families came in, waited, then left again before a doctor finally came. He was older, probably late forties, and his dark hair was thinning on top.

The doctor walked over to him. "Sam Winchester?" he asked.

Sam stood up. "That's me."

"Dean is in recovery now," he said. "I'm Dr. Markell, your brother's attending physician."

"He's okay?"

"Your brother is a fighter with an amazing constitution. I have to tell you, he did code twice on the table."

"Code?" Sam repeated, his heart jolting. "You mean his heart stopped? Twice?"

"Yes. Only for forty-five seconds or so each time, and we got him back."

Like that made it better somehow. Okay, it did. If they hadn't gotten him back, he'd be . . . Sam cleared his throat and chopped off that train of thought sharply. "Did you get all the bleeding?" he asked.

"We did our best. Only time will tell for sure, I'm afraid. Your brother's condition is extremely serious, Mr. Winchester, make no mistake about that, but he's strong, and he's holding his own."

"Can I see him?"

"The nurses seem to think it would best if he has family with him when he wakes up. We don't ordinarily allow family into the recovery room for long because there are things that may seem alarming to you that are completely normal, but given the situation, we're going to allow it. Please understand that he's under observation at all times, and if there's anything to worry about, someone will come in and take care of things."

"Fine, whatever," Sam said. He'd agree to anything to be allowed back in with Dean. Dr. Markell handed him off to a nurse who led him to recovery. Sam sat down uneasily beside his brother's bed and took his hand so that Dean would know he was there. Whatever Dean might say, Sam knew he liked to have human contact. That he wasn't a pretty girl wasn't Sam's fault. He noticed something right off, though.

He caught the attention of the nurse on attendance. "Where is his necklace?" he asked.

"With his personal effects."

Sam blinked. "That would be his only personal effect," he said. "Can I have it, please? He'll panic if he doesn't have it when he wakes up."

She nodded and walked away. Once she'd returned it to him, he absent-mindedly wrapped the tubing around his free hand and watched Dean. All he had to do now was stay calm, so no one would throw him out.

* * *

Bobby pulled off the interstate and drove into a gas station. He got his piebald Chevelle gassing up, then went and found himself a pay phone. Using a credit card, he dialed the number for the hospital in Birmingham and went through the rigmarole to get connected to John's room. He waited while it rang, and then he heard John's voice. "Hello?"

"John, it's Bobby. I hit a wall of traffic just outside Memphis, so I'm going to be delayed. How is everything?"

"They've tied me to a bed," John growled. "I'm really not that bad off, but they're insisting that I stay in bed."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Smoke inhalation," John replied sourly. "Dean's finally out of surgery. Again."

"What happened?"

"He has holes inside that keep opening up," John said, and Bobby blinked blindly at the phone's logo. "Internal bleeding," John added unnecessarily. Maybe he thought that Bobby's silence indicated lack of comprehension rather than sheer horror. "It took them hours, Bobby, and he coded twice."

Bobby was reminded of Pamela's suggestion that he buy a plane ticket. It sounded like maybe he should have. "How long?"

"Never long enough for damage," John said. "But I can't go to him, so Sam's keeping watch on him by himself."

"I'll be there as quick as I can, John. Is Sam with him now?"

"Yeah, they let Sam go into recovery with him because they don't want him to panic if he wakes up alone. He's already freaked out twice, and one of those times is when he wound up in surgery."

"What made him freak out?"

"They tried to keep his necklace away from him," John said. "He became hysterical enough that they cleaned it for him so he could wear it. And then he freaked out when we told him about Jessica."

"Son of a . . ." Bobby shook his head. Dean had been so quietly happy about his brother having a chance at normal, at the idea of nephews and nieces. He would not react well to finding out that the girl he'd liked so well had been a demon the whole time. "I'll see what I can do to find an alternate route, and I'll get there as soon as I possibly can."

"I've let the hospital know you're coming and that you should be let straight through to Dean."

"Good to know. There wasn't any problem?"

"They kicked up the usual fuss about family only, and I told him Dean didn't have more than me and Sam, and that Dean thought of you as his uncle, and that we'd need someone beyond the two of us to help us keep him calm. They went for it, so just give your name and they'll let you through."

"Good." Bobby grimaced. "How bad off is he, John? We talking the whole nine yards of PTSD?"

"Probably more than that," John replied. "He wouldn't believe in Sammy at first, kept saying he was a hallucination because his brother wouldn't have left Stanford." Sam must have hated hearing that, Bobby thought, but it wasn't exactly surprising. Dean always seemed to feel abandoned after the kid went away to school and John started hunting solo. Bobby had done what he could, but there were limits to what he could do to make up for the boy's blood kin leaving him alone. "Just get here soon, Bobby. We . . . we need you." There was a click, and Bobby knew John had hung up.

It gave him no pleasure at all for John to abandon his usual stand of self-sufficiency, because all it meant was that things were unbelievably serious. He went inside, grabbed a map and went back out to the car to listen to traffic radio so he could plot a route around the accident that had jammed the interstate solid.


	19. Chapter 19

Sam woke up with a crick in his neck and squeezed his eyes tight before opening them. Dean was still motionless on the bed, so he seemed to be sleeping. Sam leaned up to check, looking at his brother's chest, making sure it was moving.

"He is well."

Sam's head snapped up, and he stared at the man who stood across the bed from him. It was the guy from the freeway, from the fire. The guy with the trench coat. "How'd you get the coat back?" he asked, and then wondered why he'd asked such an inane question.

"I retrieved it from evidence lock up," the man said, and Sam knew that had to be by some nonstandard means because there was no way the authorities would have released it so soon – or that the bloodstains would all have come out, for that matter.

"What are you doing here?" Sam asked. "How'd you get in?"

The man tilted his head in an oddly bird-like motion. "I walked."

"No, I mean, how did you convince them to let you in? You're not family, nobody asked me, what excuse did you give?"

"I waited until the door had opened to admit another, and then I walked in with them," the man said soberly.

"You snuck in?" The man shrugged his assent. "But why are you here?"

"I am watching over Dean," he said, nodding towards Sam's brother. There was an odd expression in his eyes, a warmth that one might expect to see a man display towards family or close friends. Sam couldn't imagine how this . . . person . . . could have developed that sort of closeness with Dean.

"But . . . who are you?" he asked.

"I am Castiel," the man said, and Sam's thought that it was an unusual name was eclipsed by the man's next words. "I am an angel of the Lord."

"An angel of the Lord?" Sam repeated, and Castiel nodded. "Dude, do you know how nuts that sounds?"

"Why?" Castiel asked. "Do you not believe in angels?" His tone made that less a question than a rhetorical statement, as if he knew very well what Sam believed.

Stung slightly, Sam gave him a once over. "In trench coats, not so much."

"I left my robe and halo at home," Castiel said in a deadpan voice.

Sam stared at him, entirely uncertain if he was serious or if that was some kind of joke. "Oh," he said weakly. This guy had thrown Sam for a loop, but that didn't mean he was what he said he was.

Castiel glanced down at the suit and coat. "These are merely the clothes of my vessel. I am not certain of their significance, but your brother had much the same reaction when he saw me for the first time."

"Vessel?" Sam felt lost in this conversation. There were so many questions he wanted answers to.

Castiel nodded. "The man that I am inhabiting."

"You're possessing someone?" Sam asked incredulously. That sounded less than angelic.

"In order to walk among humans, yes."

"Like a demon?"

"Demons do not require the consent of their host," Castiel said. "Angels do."

"So this guy volunteered to have you climb inside him?"

"He is a most devout man. He prayed to serve the Lord."

"And here you are," Sam muttered. "How do I know you're not a demon?"

"There are things I could do to prove myself, but I will not do them here."

"Not in public?"

"Not in a hospital, where there are so many electrical devices that are critical to keeping people alive."

"Okay," Sam said. "Sounds like a sensible plan. But . . ." He glanced at Dean and remembered something. "Castiel . . . you're the other hallucination." The one Dean had said he liked better.

"I am not a hallucination," Castiel said with a hint of starch in his voice.

"No, I know, but neither am I," Sam replied, shaking his head. Castiel's eyebrows went up. "He was convinced the first couple of times he saw me that I was a hallucination."

"I understand why he thought I was a delusion, but I do not know why he would think you were," Castiel said.

Sam shrugged. "He hasn't seen me in over a year," he said uncomfortably, then he wondered why he felt any need to explain himself to this person at all. At that moment, Dean started twitching and whimpering, and Sam leaned over to try and soothe him out of the nightmare. Before his hand even touched Dean's forehead, though, Castiel placed a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder and Dean quieted. "What did you do?" Sam asked.

"I stopped his nightmare." He gazed solemnly into Sam's eyes. "I will not leave him. You should get more rest. You have not slept well in several days."

"I can't just sleep with you here. Dean doesn't know you."

"You know that he has met me."

Sam had the vivid image in his mind of this man . . . angel . . . whatever . . . holding Dean in his arms in the midst of that raging fire. A flash of Dean's hand clutched desperately in the man's white dress shirt. And Dean had said he liked the Castiel hallucination better than the Sam hallucination. Sam shook his head to rid it of these thoughts. "Why didn't you just carry Dean out of the building?"

"I could not exit that circle until your father freed me."

"Dad freed you?" Sam asked, startled.

"He did."

"Is that why he stayed inside so long?"

"It is," Castiel said.

Sam shook his head. "I still don't know that you're not a demon."

"Why would a demon be standing here at his bedside, keeping watch over him?" Castiel asked logically. "Why would a demon be trying to gain your trust?"

"To get close to us so that they could be there at the moment that we take Dean out of the hospital and he's vulnerable again."

"If I were a demon, you could not stop me now."

"And you'd draw a lot of attention, taking him out of the middle of a hospital."

"I could kill him."

"The bastard doesn't want him dead," Sam said. "He could have killed him any time over the past two months." Castiel's expression went very dark, and Sam gave him a startled look. "How long were you there with him?" he asked.

"Nine hours, thirty-seven minutes and fourteen seconds," Castiel said. "By human reckoning."

Sam wondered if that was just the angel being precise, or if it had just gone on so long that he had felt like he counted every second. "Did you see . . . Azazel with Dean?"

Castiel's expression froze over, and Sam knew that he had seen something awful. "Why?"

"I saw it, too, some of it," Sam said, and Castiel's eyes sharpened on him. "I had . . . dreams. That's how we found him, I started . . . getting a sense of where he was."

"That does not surprise me," Castiel said slowly.

"I started having them in late August," Sam said. Castiel's eyes grew wider, and Sam read accusation in them. "I didn't know they meant anything. I didn't know there was any reason to worry."

"Did you call Dean?" Castiel asked.

"What, and tell him I was having nightmares about him? He'd have laughed at me, and he wouldn't have listened. I wouldn't have listened. Who would? Most people's nightmares don't mean anything."

Castiel nodded, and a spasm of something that looked like grief crossed his face. "Unfortunately, Sam, you do not have that luxury." Sam clamped his teeth together and tried not to think about the dreams and his failure to act on them. Castiel leaned toward Sam, and for a moment he thought the other man was going to put his hand on his shoulder. Then Castiel's fingers touched Sam's forehead and the world went away.

* * *

Pain. Pain was good. It told Dean he was alive. He was reasonably sure that was a massive cliché, but he guessed that was because it was the truth. The mattress felt softer than usual, and he could swear he had something on. Blankets? Weird. Maybe he was tripping.

Beeping. That was different. Beeping . . . wait . . . beeping meant machines. Machines meant hospitals. Since he doubted very much that Azazel would have taken him to a hospital, that seemed odd. He opened his eyes and saw a suspended ceiling above him, and tubes going up like vines to twine around tall devices. And a man next to the IV stand. He turned his head and met the angel's blue eyes. "I've been meaning to ask you, is Castiel a Spanish name or Portuguese?"

"Neither, it is Enochian."

Dean tried to match that with his understanding of world language and geography, failed, blamed his truncated high school education and moved on. Something shifted by his feet, and he leaned up a little, wincing at the pain this caused but otherwise ignoring it. Sammy sat in a chair at the end of the bed, his head pillowed on his arms on the mattress. Dean nodded, lying back down again. "So, delusion number one and delusion number two, present and accounted for."

"Neither Sam nor I is a hallucination, Dean," Castiel said.

"That's what they all say," Dean replied wearily. He hoped this delusion lasted awhile before he had to go back to the real world of Azazel and whatever destiny the demon had planned. The bed was comfy, he was warm and covered, and he had Sammy close by. The beeping might drive him insane, but if he'd conjured all of this up in his head, that would pretty much mean he was already there and had set up housekeeping.

"Do you truly believe that we are imaginary?" Castiel asked, his brows knitting.

Dean looked up at him and saw that the guy was in some level of distress. He sighed. "Sometimes," he said. "It's hard . . . was it only two months?"

"You disappeared from my awareness at 11 am on September 4th," Castiel said. "It is now 3 am on November 15th. That is slightly longer than two months by the Gregorian calendar."

Dean absorbed that vaguely, but his attention attached to something else. "Your awareness? I disappeared from your awareness? What does that mean, exactly?"

"My primary task since your conception has been to observe you," Castiel replied in what seemed to be his customary somber tone. "On occasion I have been sent on other missions, but I remained conscious of your location and state of health. At 11 am on September 4th, I lost that sense of your presence."

"Dude, that just proves you're a hallucination," Dean said.

"What do you mean?" Castiel asked, his brows knitting together.

Dean thought this guy needed to lighten up. What was with him to invent such a serious delusion? He shrugged carefully. "I'm not self-centered enough to really believe that an angel would be set to watching over me in particular," he said. "I'm not that important."

"But you're important enough for a demon to concentrate his attention on?" Castiel asked.

Dean flinched and his hands started to shake. He closed them to make it less obvious. "That's different. Assuming they exist – and I don't believe they do, sorry, Cas – angels would have better things to do than watch us mere mortals going about our daily lives. Demons torture humans for the sheer pleasure of it."

A pretty girl walked in, and Dean glanced up at Castiel to find the angel missing. More proof that he was an invention of Dean's mind. "Is something wrong, Mr. Winchester?" she asked.

"Where's Maureen? Not that you're not gorgeous, but . . ." He trailed off, running out of energy and words.

The girl smiled. "She's on the day shift. She'll be back in about four hours. I'm LeAnn. Do you need anything for pain?"

As the beeping slowed, Dean realized that his heart rate had shot up during his imaginary conversation. That must have been what called LeAnn in. "I think I'm okay," he said.

"Can you rate your pain for me, one to ten?"

"Pre-skewed scale?" he asked.

LeAnn smiled. "Please," she said, putting her hand on his leg. It felt good to be touched by another human being, one who seemed fairly sane. She didn't know him from Adam, but she was nice.

He evaluated his pain contemplatively. Everything hurt, pretty much. Or, not the leg her hand was on, or most of the other leg, and his ass didn't hurt. Most of the pain seemed to be centered on his front, below his ribcage, and some of it felt very new. "What did you guys do?"

"We had to open you up again to find some internal bleeding and close it up," she said, her tone calm and soothing.

"Again?" he asked. "You did it before?"

"Yup," she said. "You're doing really well, though," she added with a smile. "Now, can you rate your pain for me?"

Dean sighed. "Maybe a four or a five. It can be hard to remember . . . before."

Her hazel eyes warmed suddenly. "I can understand that," she said. "Let me up your morphine a little."

Dean nodded and closed his eyes. Then he felt movement by his foot again. He looked at LeAnn as she adjusted something on one of the machines. "Hey, can you see . . . is there something on the end of my bed?"

"Oh, is he disturbing you?" she asked, eyes widening, and she reached out towards Sammy.

"No, no," Dean said before she could touch him. "I just – you can see him? He's really there?"

She took Dean's hand instead of grabbing Sammy's shoulder. Squeezing gently, she said, "Yes, I can see your brother. He's really here. Your father is in his room, and he's doing great."

Dean knew he should ask questions about that, but he was going vague from the drugs entering his system. "Okay. Thanks."

She squeezed his hand again and left. The minute she was gone, Castiel was there again. "Okay, you've got to be a delusion, otherwise, where did you go?"

"I went nowhere, Dean," Castiel said solemnly. "But I was not admitted here through the correct channels, so I must not be seen."

"So you went invisible?" Dean asked, his words slurring so as to be almost incoherent.

Castiel seemed to have no trouble understanding him, however. "I did. Dean, it upsets your brother when you call him a hallucination."

Dean let out a tiny chuckle. "Yanking his chain is about all I can do right now," he said, only he wasn't sure the words actually came out. He'd begun to drift, but he saw Castiel sigh before his eyes closed and carried him away on the dark current.

* * *

Something hit Sam on the top of the head, causing him to jerk upright and stare as his brother twitched and moaned. One of the nurses was in the room, one Sam didn't know the name of. Sam stood up and leaned over Dean. His eyes were closed and his face was anguished. "It's okay, Dean," he said softy, stroking his brother's hair. "It's Sammy. I'm here." No matter how much he hated that name, it seemed to be the only one that worked. "You're safe in the hospital. It's okay." After a few moments, Dean started to calm a bit, and Sam had time to wonder where Castiel had gone.

"His records say he's likely to be combative if we try to wake him up when he's like that," the nurse said, and Sam looked up at her. "How true is that when he's in this condition?"

"I once saw him throw a guy halfway across the room when he tried to wake him up out of a nightmare." That, too, had been in a hospital, and the doctor hadn't listened when eleven-year-old Sam warned him that it wasn't a good idea to shake Dean awake. "He was sixteen at the time."

"Yes, but he's not exactly at his best right now," she said.

Why wouldn't people listen? "Trust me, whether he'd succeed or not, he'd try, and right now that could make him hurt himself."

"What about you?" she asked. "Are you likely to wake up fighting?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm not having nightmares about being tortured, though, so it's different." She nodded and left. Sam watched her go, rolling his eyes. Then he looked towards the head of the bed and saw Castiel standing there. "What the –" He cut his exclamation off and moderated his tone. "How did you get there?"

"I never left," Castiel said. "I simply did not make my presence known to Jenna."

"Jenna?"

"The woman who just left," Castiel said.

"The nurse? Why not?"

"I am not here legitimately, and I should not be in a vessel." He looked down at Dean, and Sam got the sense again that there was a deep connection between them that he had no way of understanding. "Regardless, I must remain invisible to the staff here. I am showing myself to you and your family alone."

"Wait, does that mean that I'm in here talking to myself so far as anyone out there is concerned?" Sam asked, gesturing towards the central room with his head.

"I have made it so that they will not notice our conversation. They will only notice your presence and everything to do with Dean. I do not want to interfere with their care of him unless it is necessary to keep him alive."

Footsteps approached the doorway, and Castiel vanished. Sam's eyes widened, and he struggled to maintain his composure as Jenna came in again. "How's he doing?" she asked.

Sam shrugged a little tautly. "No change," he said. Her attitude had irritated him when she'd been in earlier. She looked at Dean's monitors and made a note in the computer, then left.

"She dislikes being told not to do her job as she sees fit," Castiel said, and Sam turned to find him visible again. He wasn't sure what Castiel meant or why he was mentioning it at all. "The instructions not to attempt to awaken or soothe Dean when he is having a nightmare disturb her."

Sam's eyes drifted towards the main room. That put a different complexion on things. But it brought up a question he'd meant to ask earlier. "Why didn't you stop it? The nightmare he was having?"

"It started while she was in the room, and you awakened before I could slip around her and stop it."

Sam blinked. "Oh."

"She was distressed that she was expected to let it continue if you did not stop it yourself. I suspect that if a similar situation arises, she will awaken you rather than waiting."

Her attitude made a lot more sense in that context. "How do you know that?"

"I have a limited ability to read the surface thoughts of those around me," Castiel replied.

"You can read my thoughts?" Sam asked, eyes widening.

"No, I can't," Castiel replied.

"You can't? Is that unusual?" He wasn't altogether sure he wanted to know the answer, but he had to ask.

"Extremely." Sam gulped. Did it have something to do with what the demon had done to him? Another weird thing that made him different from other people? He really didn't want to think about that too hard. Castiel started speaking again, and Sam looked up. "You will find that other angels are uneasy around you, and that is part of why."

Sam snorted, shaking his head. "Other angels," he muttered. "That's just so bizarre."

Castiel gazed at him silently for a moment, then said, "Have you now accepted that I am an angel?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "My theory as to your hypothetical demonic motivations seems a bit . . . Machiavellian."

Castiel tilted his head – still with that strangely bird-like feel to the movement. "Machiavellian would not be an unreasonable way to describe many demons," Castiel said. "Their minds are often as twisted as their souls."

"They have souls?" Sam asked, intrigued by this insight.

"Demons are nothing but souls. It is all that remains. Twisted, damaged souls."

"Twisted, damaged souls of what?" Sam asked uncertainly.

"Of the damned," Castiel said, and Sam stared at him, startled. Castiel apparently took this for incomprehension, because he explained further. "Of humans who have gone to Hell. Every demon was once a man or woman who lived upon the earth."

Sam gulped. So the thing in Jessica had once been a person who'd done something so bad they'd been damned to Hell, and once there, whoever it was had become a demon. "How does that work?"

Castiel pursed his lips briefly, then seemed to make a decision. "Lucifer created the first demon, Lilith, as a rebellion against our Father, to show him that man was venal and unworthy of the high regard our Father held you in. Once he was cast down, she helped him to tempt other humans to fall from Grace, and they made more of her kind from their souls." Sam shook his head, appalled but not sure whether this was an elaborate fiction. He'd begun to think not. "Demons are made by tormenting a human soul till it is so warped and damaged that it is no longer human."

"So demons are just people," Sam said, slumping in his chair.

Castiel straightened. "No, Sam," he replied intently, and Sam looked up at him in surprise at this change in demeanor. "Demons are no longer people in the sense that you mean."

"But if they were human –"

Castiel shook his head and Sam broke off. "They have been irretrievably changed," the angel said, and his blue eyes seemed to be driving deep into Sam. "What made them human no longer exists. You must not feel sympathy for them, because they will feel none for you. If ever a demon offers you help, you must not trust it."

Sam could feel Castiel's words like they were sinking into his soul, and he wondered why Castiel was so determined that Sam hear and understand what he was saying. What did he know?


	20. Chapter 20

Castiel's head came up, and he turned. "Someone is coming. I will not leave, but I am not yet prepared to show myself to him."

Sam blinked at him and shook his head. "But –" Castiel disappeared, and Sam stared at the empty space.

"Zoning?"

Sam turned, startled, and stared at Bobby. He looked bone-tired, but he was gazing at Sam with mild amusement. "How did you get in?" Sam asked.

"Your dad let 'em know I was coming," Bobby replied. He looked down at Dean and walked slowly to the head of the bed, passing right through where Castiel had been standing. Sam gulped and didn't say anything, not sure what he should do. "He's looked better," Bobby said, but all he could see of Dean was his head, neck and arms. "Has he been awake at all?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "He thinks I'm a hallucination about half the time."

"He'll get past that, Sam," Bobby said.

"Dad didn't say you were coming," Sam said, and wary paranoia began to surface. He tamped it down. Surely Cas would know if there was something wrong.

"He asked me yesterday morning," Bobby said. "Said you guys needed some back up on Dean-watch because you were both tired."

Maureen came in with another chair and Sam smiled at her. "Did you see him?" Sam asked.

"Not yet, I thought I'd better come here first, and I figured there was at least some possibility of him being here."

Sam shook his head. "They're keeping him on oxygen is my understanding. I haven't seen him since they took him away yesterday. I've been feeling like I wanted to split in two, but . . ." He trailed off.

"Yeah, kid, I know." Bobby gave him a squeeze on his shoulder. "So, why don't you go off and see your dad now?"

"I want to be here if Dean wakes up," Sam said.

"Sam, your father's got to be just as freaked out and worried and, well, sick about this as you are, and he can't be here. He's alone in whatever room they've got him in, or if he's not, he's with someone who doesn't know him and probably doesn't care." Sam grimaced. He did want to see Dad, to check up on him, but it felt wrong to leave Dean. "I promise you, Sam, I won't leave Dean alone, and I'll remind him that you're not a hallucination. After all, why would Dean imagine you this damned tall?"

That got a weak laugh out of Sam and he stood up. "Okay, Bobby. I'll be back, though."

"Not till you've showered and had a decent meal, I hope," Bobby replied. "Go on, kid. I'll be here when you get back."

Sam stood up and put his hand on Dean's foot. "He's got cuts all over his torso and back, and on his sides, and here on his left leg. So if you need to touch him, be careful of that."

"I will Sam. Go on." Sam gave Dean a long look, and then walked out of the ICU. The halls of the hospital were busy, and Sam pulled out his cell phone to see what time it was. It was completely dead, which kind of explained the total lack of calls. He tried to remember where he'd left his charger, but he couldn't. It was probably in his duffle, but for all he knew, he'd left it at the apartment. He verified Dad's room number with the ladies at the information desk and headed up there.

Sam walked through the door into a heated discussion. "I'm plenty fine to go sit with my son, so he knows I'm here for him," his father was saying. John was in the bed, tubes in his nose. Otherwise he looked absolutely fine, exactly like Dad.

"You'll help your son more effectively if you don't make yourself sick."

"I'm fine, Dr. Gordon. I'm not talking about climbing a mountain, I'm not even talking about walking there." He nodded towards Sam. "My son can push me."

Sam walked the rest of the way into the room now that he'd been drawn into the conversation. "You don't even want him to visit Dean?" he asked. "How sick is he?"

The doctor turned to him. "Hello, Sam, I'm Dr. Gordon. It's not that I don't want your father to go see Dean, I just want him to keep the cannula in."

Sam turned to his father. "What's the problem?"

"I don't want to alarm Dean."

"You'll alarm him more by turning blue and falling over."

"I'm not going to turn blue and fall over, Sammy," Dad said. "I'm on the verge of checking myself out."

"Against medical advice," Dr. Gordon put in.

"Dad!" Sam exclaimed. "What's the point? We have to stay here anyway, why not get treatment while you're here?"

"She's not letting me visit your brother," Dad replied, glowering up at her.

Sam shook his head. "With the cannula in, she'll let you go, right?" Sam turned to the doctor.

She nodded. "Absolutely."

"So do it, Dad," Sam said earnestly, giving his father a look that he hoped conveyed the notion that he should pretend to go along with it at the very least.

"Fine," John muttered, and the doctor went out. A few moments later, a nurse came in with a wheelchair that had an oxygen tank attached. They made the transfer and Sam started pushing his father back towards the ICU.

When he saw John reaching towards the cannula, Sam leaned closer. "At least wait till we're on a different floor, Dad," he hissed.

Once they were in the elevator, his father pulled the thing out and looked up at him. "I take it Bobby's here?"

"Yeah, he's in with Dean or I would never have left." Sam cleared his throat. "And Castiel is there, too," he said.

"Sam!" his father said, looking up at him sharply.

"We're alone in the elevator, Dad, and I know you know who I mean."

"When did he show up and how did he get in?"

"That's a little complicated to explain," Sam said. "But . . . he's not always real easy to see." He was avoiding the word invisible, and he hoped his father didn't need a picture drawn for him. Of course, drawing a picture of someone who was invisible could be sort of challenging.

"That makes sense," John said, and Sam was relieved. "Did you talk to him?"

"For a while, but some of what he told me is pretty, well, pretty out there." The doors opened. "He said he wasn't ready to meet Bobby."

"I see." Sam slowed to a stop as he yawned hugely. "What's up?" his father asked.

"Just tired," Sam said over the tail end of the yawn. He kept pushing. "What day is it?"

"Tuesday," John said. Sam grimaced. It hadn't even been a week since . . . Sam shoved the thought of Jessica away. Dean was back. Dean was safe. Dean was never getting hurt like that again. That was all that mattered.

* * *

Bobby'd had enough coffee to flood his engine, but he was still dog tired. He flipped the chair around and sat across the back, staring at Dean. His hair was shaggy and his beard had grown out long. The dark hair made a sharp contrast to Dean's pale skin. Hell, even his freckles stood out starkly against that pallor. Bobby wondered if the hospital would let him bring in an electric razor to shave all that hair off. He was sure Dean would be happier without it.

His cheeks looked sunken, and the skin of his eyes almost looked translucent. His torso seemed bulky enough for Dean . . . or maybe a little too bulky. Bobby stood up and walked over to lift the covers up a little. The bandages he could see were thick and enveloping. The sheer amount of bandaging was daunting, and what he could see of the kid seemed shrunken.

"I don't usually share that much on the first date."

Though he was startled, Bobby gave no sign of it. "Sure you do," he said. "You'll share this much in the first hour if she's willing." He lowered the blanket and turned to look into Dean's eyes. The pain and weariness he saw there made him wince internally. The kid was going to be a long time in recovering from this one, assuming he ever made it all the way back.

"Yeah, that's true," he said, grinning faintly, and some of his amusement touched his eyes. "What are you doing here? Dad said I was somewhere in Alabama."

"North end of Birmingham," Bobby replied. "Your dad and your brother needed someone to spell them."

Dean's brows knit. "Spell them doing what?"

"Sitting with you, ya idjit," Bobby said, trying to infuse some of his care for the boy into his voice. "The Impala is in good shape. I left her under a tarp in the back lot of the yard."

Dean blinked at him. "She's okay?"

"Purring like a kitten," Bobby said. "A really big kitten, but you know what I mean."

Dean nodded vaguely. The car thing probably didn't seem real important right now, but it would eventually, and Dean would know where she was when it did. "Did you see Sammy here earlier?" Dean asked.

"Yup. Sent him off to check on your dad."

"Check on him? Is something wrong?"

"Smoke inhalation from what I hear, but he's not too bad off. They just want him to rest, and you know your daddy and rest."

"Oil and water," Dean said, nodding. "But he's okay?"

"He's talking," Bobby replied, and Dean seemed reassured by that. A moment later, Sam and John came into the room, John in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank attached. Oddly enough, the valve on the tank appeared to be closed, and the tubes leading to it were tucked out of sight behind John. Bobby rolled his eyes. No doubt taking the tank and using the attachments had been a condition of leaving his room, but John had something of an attitude where such things were concerned.

"Dean, you're awake," Sam said, his eyes wide. "I didn't leave until Bobby got here, but I thought I should go see Dad."

Dean blinked at Sam, his whole body tensing up, and then he turned to his father. "Dad, I told you he shouldn't be here. It's not safe."

"He's safer here than if he was alone somewhere else," John replied flatly. "That's one of the reasons I got Bobby to come out, so I didn't have to leave either of you alone."

"I don't matter, Dad," Dean said intently. "Fine, send Bobby and Sam off somewhere, but he doesn't need to be near me."

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam retorted. "And what do you mean, you don't matter? Of course you matter."

Dean barely glanced at his brother, focusing his attention on John. "Dad, it's not safe. He kept threatening Sammy in all sorts of ways, and I just – he's not safe near me."

"He didn't just threaten you, Dean, he tortured you. I am not leaving, not when I have a chance to help –"

The boy's monitors were screaming alerts. A nurse came running in. "What's going on?" She asked, pushing through. "We can't have you all in here if you're going to upset him."

Sam went white and fell silent, and they all remained quiet while she checked Dean's numbers, then went up and put her hand on his forehead. "You want me to ask your family to go?"

"Just Sammy," Dean said.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed in a strangled voice. "Please, don't –"

"Sam, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to step outside for the moment," the nurse said.

Sam looked to his father for guidance, and John said, "Wait outside and one of us will be along in a minute." Throwing one last anxious look at his brother, Sam let the nurse take him out. John leaned close to Bobby and spoke in a rapid undertone. "Sam needs some rest and I'll wager you do, too, and I really don't want him alone." Bobby nodded. "I'll stay with Dean. Take Sam – tell him I told you – get him some food and take him to a motel and both of you get some sleep. I won't be able to stay with Dean during the night, and I don't want him left alone either."

"You going to deal with his issue about Sam staying?" Bobby asked.

John nodded. "Go, get some rest, both of you, and seriously, Bobby, don't leave him alone."

Bobby stood up and squeezed Dean's foot. "Hey, I'll be back later, kiddo. You listen to your dad, okay?"

Dean was gazing anxiously back and forth between them. "Sam needs to go away, Dad."

Bobby left them to it and went to catch the attention of the pretty nurse. "If I brought in scissors and an electric shaver, and if Dean wants it done, would it be okay if we got that excess hair off him?"

"Sure," she said.

Bobby went out to find Sam pacing in the hallway. "Come on, kid, your dad's going to handle Dean. Meanwhile, you and me are going to get some food and find a motel."

"Bobby, I don't want to –"

"Kid, you need some real sleep, and your daddy can't stay with him all night so we're going to have to be rested, or we won't be any good to him."

"You heard him, he doesn't want me."

Bobby refrained from rolling his eyes. Sam couldn't be more than twenty-two or twenty-three. The ego bruised easily at that age, and he'd been through a whole hell of a lot over the past few days. If the self pity dragged on too long, he'd take care of it then. "He wants you where you'll be safe," Bobby said mildly. "You just leave it to your dad to persuade him that here is safest. In the meantime, what do you want to eat?"

"Anything. I don't care."

That tempted Bobby to search out the weirdest cuisine he could find in Birmingham, but Sam had been living in California. He probably couldn't find anything as weird as what they ate out there. "I saw a Biggerson's on my way in," he said. When in doubt, apply comfort food – at least until the belly started expanding past the pants. Sam wasn't in any danger of that. He was probably still growing, scary though that thought was. Sam shrugged and got into the passenger side of the Chevelle. He didn't seem to have much to say, and Bobby devoutly hoped he wasn't sulking. Sam had always had a sulk that could send an entire room full of cheerleaders into a funk, and Bobby didn't think any of them were up to dealing with that.

Bobby drove over to where John's truck was parked and Sam got his stuff out of the cab before they drove on to the restaurant. It was quiet. Midweek just before lunch didn't tend to be a busy time at a diner. They ate in silence. Bobby never talked much at the best of times, and Sam's mood was making conversation impossible. Apart from placing his order, Sam didn't bestir himself to speak until they were back outside. "I saw a couple of motels near the hospital," he said. "That way we'd be close, at least."

"Good thinking," Bobby said, and then wondered if he sounded condescending. It was weird. He still thought of Sam as being a teenager, so getting used to the grown man might take some doing.

Both the motels had vacancies, so Bobby chose the one that wasn't a chain and pulled into the lot. They probably didn't need to be quite as careful under these circumstances, but flying under the radar got to be habit. Leaving Sam in the car, he got them a room with two beds and paid cash. They wound up at the back of the place, where they had to go past every other room to go in and out, but Bobby didn't much care.

As soon as they were in the room, Sam started what Bobby could only call puttering. He dug in his duffel for his phone charger and plugged it in with his phone on it. Then, after tossing his toiletries onto the bed furthest from the door, he started separating his clothes into two piles. Bobby guessed from the smoky smell of one of the piles that he was sorting out the dirty stuff. Once that was done, he dropped the dirty clothes back into the duffel and took over a couple of the drawers in the dresser for the rest. Then he grabbed the duffel and his toiletries bag and put the first under the sink and the second on top. At that point he seemed stymied. For several moments, he just stood motionless in front of the sink, apparently staring at his reflection in the glass. Then he turned around and looked at Bobby. "I just did all of that by reflex."

All Bobby had done was drop his duffel at the end of the other bed, kick off his shoes and sit down. After that, he'd been so fascinated by Sam's activities that he'd just watched him. His movements had been so sure, so swift, so economical. "Yeah?" Bobby said noncommittally.

"It's like I never left," Sam replied. "Like we just got into a new town, got a room and settled in to figure out our next move. Like high school. Like junior high. Like every year after I got big enough to look after those kinds of things for myself." He walked over and sat down on the bed. "I guess things never really change."

"Hey, at times like these, our brains go on autopilot, and if you've got a functional set of behaviors to fit a given situation, you drop right into them. It don't mean anything."

Sam shrugged. "Did Dean say anything to you? Anything important?"

"He'd only been awake a couple minutes when you guys came in. I told him where the Impala was and that was about it." Bobby squinted his eyes, trying to remember. "He did ask where you were."

"You sure he didn't ask if you'd seen me?" Sam asked, and Bobby shrugged. That had been the phrase Dean had used, but Bobby was reasonably certain what question he'd meant. "Dad told you I'd been having those dreams since August, didn't he?" Sam's voice was tentative, uncertain. Bobby nodded and Sam grimaced. "If I'd just recognized what they were, or even just called Dad or Dean –"

"You wouldn't have got your dad," Bobby interjected. "He's had a voicemail message up for the past several months directing people to call Dean for help."

"Even if Dean had ignored me, at least I would have tried," Sam said. "Or maybe I could have gotten him to listen. But I just chalked them up to stress and guilt and ignored them."

"Sam, you couldn't have known they were real. No normal person would think they were real."

Sam rose and started pacing. "Yeah, but Bobby, no matter how hard I tried, I'm not normal. I get fun visions of a demon carving pictures on my brother's skin, and angels can't read my thoughts. God knows what else is weird about me."

Bobby started to respond soothingly, but the middle statement caught his attention. "Angels can't read your thoughts? Where'd you pick that up?"

Sam stopped dead and turned to face Bobby. "I . . . can you pretend I didn't say that?"

"Not really, but we can talk about it later." Bobby jerked his head towards the bed. "Get some sleep."

"Actually, I need a shower first, you were right." Sam opened one of the drawers, grabbed out a couple of things and then disappeared into the bathroom leaving Bobby to wonder how the hell angels had come up.


	21. Chapter 21

"He has to go far, far away, Dad," Dean said. "It's not safe."

"How is it safer for Sammy to go where none of us is?" John asked logically. "Where he'll be alone and won't have any back up?"

"I want you to go with him, Dad." Dean reached out his hand towards John, and John took it. His grip was strong, but his arm looked so brittle. "I'm not safe to be around. He did things to me, things I don't really understand, but I could be a danger to you and Sammy both."

"You want us to abandon you to your fate?" John asked

Dean's eyes widened, his jaw quivering slightly. John saw his Adam's apple twitch as he gulped. "Yeah, that's what I want," Dean said, his voice flat and dead.

John squeezed his son's hand, leaning closer. "Well, we're not going to. We're going to deal with that bastard. I will find out what I need to do to kill him, and then I'm going to do it. That demon is going down."

"Dad, you can't kill a demon."

"I'll find a way, Dude. And I'm sure as hell not going to run away and leave you to this thing's mercy."

Dean's eyes closed, and he let out a faint snort. "Mercy? His idea of mercy was putting a mattress in my cage."  He looked at John again, and those green eyes bored into John's with an almost painful intensity. "Dad, you've got to understand. He used threats to Sammy to get me to do things. When pain didn't work, when confusion and trickery didn't work, he'd threaten to go get Sammy." Dean's hand was gripped tight around his father's. John knew what a potent threat that was to Dean, of all people. The amount of pressure John had put him under to keep Sammy safe had never seemed so unforgivable as it did now. "And I did things – I don't know if it was real, but if Castiel is real, then I summoned him myself into a trap he couldn't escape from."

"All the more reason why Sammy should stay in reach, Dean," John said, and Dean eyebrows rose. John took a deep breath and hoped his explanation wouldn't send his son over the edge. "If he's off in Rancho Cucamonga, all the demon has to do is phone you and tell you he has him and you're lost, right?" Dean looked towards his feet, eyes very distant and full of despair. He nodded, three uneven jerks of his head. "If Sammy's sitting next to you when the call comes, you'll know it's not true."

"Will I?" Dean asked, turning towards John again. "Half the time I'm not sure Sammy's even real. If Azazel calls and tells me he has him, will I believe him or will I believe the Sammy sitting next to me?"

"The Sammy sitting next to you," John said. "Because I'm telling you he's real. You believe I'm real, don't you?" Dean nodded dumbly. "You believe Bobby's real?"

"Sure," Dean said. "I'd never imagine Bobby would come all the way to Alabama like this, so it can't be coming from my head."

John fought tears back as Dean so calmly dismissed his own importance to other people again. "Well, Bobby and I both say he's real, so therefore . . ." He paused, waiting for Dean to fill in the rest.

"Sammy's real," Dean said, his voice barely a whisper. "Was . . . did I dream it when you guys said that his girlfriend was possessed?"

"'Fraid not, Dean," John said, and Dean's eyes filled up with tears. "Looks like the demon took her over even before they got together."

"How could I have missed that?" Dean asked, looking up at the ceiling. "I sneaked peeks like twelve times, and I never picked up on it."

"How much real experience have you had with demons, Dean?" John asked.

Dean shrugged, and John could tell it hurt from the way the muscles around his eyes tightened. "A little," he said, his eyes darting to his father's with a sardonic glint, and John cursed his own stupidity.

"I meant before . . . before this."

Dean nodded. "I know. None, really, but, man, I should have seen something off about her. How did you know?"

"I was in their apartment, and I smelled the sulfur all over. I checked in the apartments on either side, and there was no scent of sulfur at all. I didn't know for sure, but I knew you'd been taken by a demon, and I had to suspect that he would try something with Sam, too. I put a devil's trap on the floor under a rug."

"A devil's trap?" Dean asked.

John looked up and around. No one was nearby. "You know how your friend couldn't get out of that ring of fire?" Dean nodded, his eyes wrinkling. "It's kind of like that, only for demons. If she'd been just an ordinary girl, she'd have walked right across it and never noticed it was there."

"But she didn't?" Dean asked.

"But she didn't," John said, nodding. "I exorcised her, Sam took care of making sure the real Jessica Moore would be okay, and we left."

"So that's why he came," Dean said thoughtfully, and John felt a stab of anger, not really directed at anyone specific.

"No, Dean," John said. "He'd already made the decision. He'd called his job and told them he wasn't coming back, he'd already packed. We were loading the truck when she got there." His elder son looked like he wanted to believe that but couldn't quite bring himself to. "Dean, your brother loves you. He can be a selfish brat, but he does love you."

Dean did start to cry, then, and John pulled his chair closer, grasping Dean's hand so that their forearms were parallel, reaching his other hand to stroke Dean's shaggy hair. Maureen came in and did her best not to disturb them, but Dean saw her and that made him tense up and try to go all smiley again.

"Hey there, pretty lady," he said, turning his head towards her.

She touched his cheek and read his monitors. "You're looking good, Dean," she said. "Keep it up."

"Keep what up, lying down in here? I think I can do that."

"Good." She gave John a nod and then left again.

Dean sagged against the pillow. "I just think I'm demon central, Dad," Dean said. "Castiel convinced him not to fight you guys somehow, or he wouldn't have left when you showed up. He's going to come back after me, and when he does, I don't want anyone else in the line of fire." Dean shook his head. "He wants me for something. He wants me to _do_ something. I'm not sure. I just know he wasn't done."

"He is done," John replied firmly. "Because he's not going to get another chance." Dean face contorted in an effort not to cry. "I will see to that."

"But Sammy, Dad. Sammy's in danger. If he gets his hands on Sammy, there's nothing I wouldn't do."

"So, we keep him safe," John said. "We keep him here and we keep you both safe." Dean's determination seemed to be weakening, but John could still see the stubborn light in his son's eyes. Something he'd inherited from both his parents. John cleared his throat. "Dean, I think you hurt your brother's feelings, earlier, asking him to leave like that."

Dean's eyes widened. "I didn't mean . . . I just . . ."

"I think he felt like you didn't want him around." The anxious wrinkle in Dean's forehead, the worry that looked out of his eyes, both made John feel like a prize shit, but if he could get Dean to agree to keep Sammy around without arguing, he'd do whatever it took. "What with you being so convinced he's a hallucination because he'd never come find you, and then you ask the nurses to send him out."

"It's not that I don't want him around, Dad," Dean said. He thumped his head back on the pillow. "I guess it doesn't matter, you always win the fights anyway. Except for Sammy leaving for college, you've won them all."

John didn't really like the defeat he heard in Dean's voice, but he didn't know how to combat that. "I want what's best for both of you, Dean. Besides, who better to watch Sam's back than you?"

"Yeah, I'll be real helpful with that right now," Dean said, gesturing down at his body. "I can't even sit up without bleeding all over everywhere."

"That's not forever, Dude," John said. "They'll kick you out in no time." Dean snorted, winced and then shook his head. "They're going to want you to start walking around soon, and then . . ." John trailed off. Dean was asleep. He sat back in the wheelchair and gulped. The sincerity when Dean had said there was nothing he wouldn't do to protect Sam – it was no rash promise made by someone who didn't know how bad things could get. He meant it, to the depths of his experience, and John ached for that experience, wishing he could somehow take it back.

"He did summon me." The deep, gravelly voice came from across the bed, and John looked up to see the man from the fire and the freeway standing there. The man who claimed to be an angel. "He did it not knowing what it would do, but Azazel somehow knew that I would not ignore a summons from Dean."

"You could have ignored it?" John asked. What he knew of summoning spells suggested that they weren't really ignorable by the beings they sent for.

Castiel pursed his lips briefly, then gave the slightest of shrugs. "It is not a summoning, per se," he replied. "It was more a plea. It had no binding power, but the knowledge that Dean was able to call for me – I believed he had escaped Azazel's influence somehow."

"So you went," John said.

"Wouldn't you?" the man asked guilelessly.

"I'm his father."

"And I am the angel who has watched over him since before his birth," Castiel replied.

"Why?"

"It was my assigned task."

"Are there angels assigned to all the kids in the world?" John asked.

"No."

"Then why were you watching Dean?"

"I was not told the reason," Castiel replied. "I am but a foot soldier."

"So, you're here under orders, now?" John asked, mildly disturbed because that was not how he'd read the person he'd found cradling his son.

"No. I am not supposed to be here, not like this, and if I am found, there could be dire consequences. However, there are events afoot that I could not disregard."

"Like what?"

Castiel didn't respond immediately, and when he did, he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "I do not believe that this is the right place to discuss the matter," he said, and he nodded towards Dean. "And I do not intend to leave him until he is 'out of the woods.'"

John blinked at him. "You've been with him this whole time?" Castiel nodded. "In the operating room, too?"

"I was."

"Wait, can't angels heal and stuff like that?" John asked.

"To a greater or lesser degree depending on the angel and the circumstances. I do not have access to that kind of power," Castiel said. "And there are among those sigils, ones that might be better to preserve than to remove."

"What?" John moderated his tone when Castiel's eyebrows went up. "What the hell do you mean, preserve? That's insane."

"There is a glyph on his back that prevents demons other than Azazel from finding him," Castiel said. "Much depends on if the stitching and other treatment he has received from the doctors has damaged the function of any of the glyphs."

"You saw them, then, you know what they are?"

"I did see them," Castiel said. "I do not know what they all do, or even what language they are all in." He sighed. "Azazel was drawing from a number of sources, and I am not familiar with all of them. I am a soldier, not a mystic."

"But you know the one on his back keeps demons from finding him?"

"One of the ones on his back keeps demons from finding him," Castiel corrected. He seemed to like precision. "The other one prevents angels from finding him. It wasn't until I felt his call that I had any idea where he was, and even then I didn't know where he was, I could simply follow the spell to reach him."

John stared at his companion for a moment, then shook his head. "Are you an angel? Honest to God?"

"I am," Castiel said soberly.

John didn't know why, but he believed him. "So, why did Azazel make Dean summon you if he'd made Dean impossible for you to find?"

"Azazel knew that I was getting closer. I was following you and Sam, and I believe he wanted to prevent me from contacting either of you. He wanted me where he could control me, and where he could leave me behind with confidence that it would be some time before I could follow. I do not think he reckoned on Sam's dreams."

"You know about those?"

"Sam told me," Castiel said.

John didn't quite know what to say. The angel – and he couldn't believe he was thinking that – the angel seemed unsurprised. He shook his head. "Why'd you try to crash the truck?"

"That was not my intention," Castiel said, seeming faintly embarrassed. "I did not realize you were in a vehicle in motion. And then I sensed one of the others nearby, and so I had to leave without speaking to you."

"The others?" John asked.

"Other angels. I believe they failed to notice me because they did not expect me to be in a vessel, but it will occur to them soon enough." He pursed his lips and seemed to be thinking for several moments. John was still absorbing his own belief in the existence of angels – or at least of angel, so he didn't interrupt. Finally, Castiel's attention went from internal to external. It was startlingly easy to tell the difference. "I have said that I do not intend to leave Dean until he is well, but I may be forced to leave, as I was on the road."

"The others?" John asked. Okay, angels plural, then. He believed in plural angels. "What would happen if they found you?"

"They would either kill me or take me back to Heaven for punishment."

John blinked at him. "Kill you?"

"The price of disobedience is death," Castiel said. "I was ordered not to interfere, and I have, most completely. But I have a part to play in what is to come, so they may merely take me to Heaven for an 'ass-reaming.'"

John opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shook his head. "'Ass reaming'? he asked.

"Is that not the correct term in your language?" Castiel asked, seeming perturbed.

"It's one of them, I guess," John said, and Castiel relaxed. "Where'd you learn it?"

"From Dean," the angel said.

"Ah." John nodded. His son was occasionally blunt to the point of brutal. John wasn't sure where he'd gotten that from exactly. "Well, let me know if you can, before you take off."

"I will," Castiel replied.

"Why didn't you want Bobby to see you?" John asked. "That could get awkward, because he's going to be around, helping keep an eye on Dean."

"I believe that he should be introduced to the concept of me outside the hospital so that he has time to adjust to the idea. He has a somewhat volatile reaction to unfamiliar supernatural entities."

John snorted. "Wow, you have been watching." Castiel nodded.

* * *

Still mostly asleep, Dean heard his father's voice, and that made him feel safe. Then words began to penetrate. " – what you saw? What did Azazel do to him?"

Dean wasn't sure who his father was talking to. Then he heard the voice, and his mind boggled. "Dean is waking up. I do not believe this conversation would be comfortable for him."

"He doesn't look like he's waking up," John observed.

"His mind is becoming aware of his surroundings. It would be a poor choice to discuss something that would upset him."

"Fine," John said, sounding exasperated. "What do you want to talk about? Butterflies?"

"Butterflies?" Castiel repeated, clearly puzzled.

"That was sarcasm," Dad replied.

"Yes, the deliberate statement of facts contrary to the truth to achieve an effect, usually one of irritation or annoyance."

Dean could almost see his dad's eyes roll. "Okay, you're definitely not a demon. Demons get sarcasm. So, what do you want to talk about?"

"Why is it that human beings feel the need to fill every silent moment with conversation?"

"Fine, I won't talk, then."

Didn't Dad know that Castiel was pulling his chain? Dean wasn't sure how he knew that, but he did. There were a few moments of tense silence, and Dean felt himself drawn inexorably towards waking. He fought it, because he knew this had to be a dream, and it was being kind of fun.

"I did not say that I _would_ not talk, I simply asked why humans feel the need to."

Dean opened his eyes, a laugh bubbling up out of him because he could imagine Dad's response without even seeing it. The laugh was unexpectedly painful, and he looked up to see Castiel standing above him. "Dude, don't make me laugh," he said. "It hurts."

"Dean!" He turned his head and found his father leaning close from his wheelchair.

He smiled. "Hey Dad." He turned and looked up at the angel towering above him again. "Hey Cas." The angel took in a breath and his eyes fairly glowed. Dean knew there was something weird he should be thinking about them both being there at the same time, but nothing was coming. "What's going on?"

"Your father wanted to talk about butterflies," Cas said.

Dean knit his brows. That sounded wrong, but he was game. "I saw a whole flock of monarchs once," he said.

"When you were driving through Santa Cruz, when you were twenty-one," Castiel replied.

Dean nodded, smiling at the memory. "Yeah. They were everywhere."

"They were extremely aesthetically pleasing."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the angel. "Dude, I don't even know what that means."

Cas raised his eyebrows. "Yes, you do," he returned, seeming amused, and Dean blinked at him. He was supposed to play along. "I am not Sam," he added.

Dean heard his father snort, but the thought of Sam alarmed him. "Where is Sammy?" he asked.

"At the hotel," John said.

"Alone?" Dean demanded.

"With Bobby," Dad said, putting his hand on Dean's uninjured leg. "He's fine."

Dean nodded. Bobby was just paranoid enough to be a good watcher for Sammy.

"Bobby's paranoia will undoubtedly keep Sam safe," Castiel observed.

Dean turned and glared up at him. "Did you just look in my head and say what I was gonna say before I could say it?"

Castiel gazed solemnly down at him. "No, I looked into my head and said what I was going to say before you could say it."

Dean couldn't help it, he laughed, and then he grabbed at his gut where it hurt. "Damn it, Cas, laughing hurts," he said, grinning up at him. "Wait, how are you here when Dad's here?" He looked over. "Dad, can you see him?"

"Yes," John said grudgingly.

"But he's _my_ hallucination," Dean protested, feeling obscurely possessive.

"He's not a hallucination, Dean, he's an angel."

Dean stared at his father in horror. "But . . . you can't be a hallucination!"

John's eyes widened. "I'm not."

"If you were a hallucination, I don't think I could take it."

Dad grabbed his hand and held it tightly. "I'm not a hallucination, I'm real."

"But if you can see my hallucination, then that means either you're a hallucination or you're crazy."

"I'm not a hallucination, Dean, and I'm no crazier than I ever was."

Dean shook his head, trying to come up with something that made sense. He looked up at Castiel, who looked just as real and as solid as before. Realization struck him. "Oh no. Things must be really bad."

"What?"

"You're humoring me, aren't you?"

John sighed with obvious patience. "Dean, when have I ever humored anybody?" he asked.

"Sammy," Dean replied. "When he believed in Santa Claus."

"That's not humoring, Dean, that's normal."

"You didn't do it with me," Dean said.

John looked at him for a minute. "You freaked out your first Christmas after . . . well, after. Anytime people started talking about how Santa was going to come down the chimney, you picked up Sammy and hid. It took me a while to figure out what you were doing, because you weren't really talking yet."

"It took you six days to understand," Castiel said, and Dean glanced over at him, startled. "You were not always present when it occurred."

Dean looked over at his father. John was giving Castiel an irritated look. "No, I know I wasn't always there. I was hunting, trying to find the thing that killed Mary." He shrugged. "Ellen was the one who really figured it out."

"Ellen?" Dean shook his head. "Who's Ellen?"

"Wife of a hunter I . . . knew." Dad didn't seem too willing to talk about it. "Anyway, I took you aside from the other kids and told you that Santa Claus was just a story, that he wasn't real, he wasn't coming, and you didn't have to be afraid."

"I don't remember that," Dean said.

"The point is, Dean, I'm not humoring you. Castiel is really here, and I'm beginning to believe he really is an angel."

Dean turned again to gaze up at Cas. "You're real?"

Castiel reached down a hand and put it on Dean's shoulder. For a moment he felt peace and his pain subsided. He smiled up at the angel, closed his eyes and fell asleep.


	22. Chapter 22

"What did you do?" John asked.

"I eased his pain," the angel said. He took his hand off Dean's shoulder slowly, as if he didn't want to break contact.

"Can't you do that all the time?"

"It would not be wise," Castiel replied, and John scowled. "Pain is there for a reason, John. If he couldn't feel it, he would behave in a manner that would be contrary to his health and would hinder his recovery."

John knew that was true, knew he had to agree with the angel. "It's just so hard to see him in pain," he said softly.

"Perhaps if you viewed the pain as a tool to aid in his recovery," Castiel suggested.

John shook his head. "Don't think that's going to work," he said dourly.

Castiel shrugged. "I suspected it wouldn't. It did not for me."

John studied Castiel's face. "You really care about him, don't you?" he said. Castiel gave him a dark look. "Sorry, I just don't know you. So all this, it's just from watching him?"

Castiel pursed his lips and then sighed. "It is not that simple."

John sat up straight. "What do you mean by that?"

The angel stood silently for a long moment, and John was getting ready to stand up and get in his face to demand answers. Finally, Castiel seemed to come to a decision. "If I explain, you will decide that I am insane or you will return to the suspicion that I am a liar. Neither appeals to me."

John ground his teeth. He needed an answer to his question, whether it made him question Castiel's sanity or veracity or not, but he wasn't sure they should have this conversation with Dean in the room.

"Dean is deeply asleep," Castiel said, and John looked up, startled. "He will not hear anything we say."

"Can you read my thoughts?" John asked.

"Occasionally I cannot avoid hearing surface thoughts," Castiel replied. "I could look deeper, but that would be an invasion of your privacy."

"Angels care about privacy?" John asked.

"Some do," Castiel said. "I have spent more time among humans than most angels, however."

"Watching?"

"Watching and interacting." Castiel paused, seeming somewhat indecisive. "I have learned a great deal from Dean."

"How long have you been interacting with him?" John asked.

"That is difficult to explain," Castiel replied. "It is complicated."

"Uncomplicate it," John snapped. He kept his voice low, not wanting to wake Dean, but he didn't like the sense he was getting from Castiel's words.

Castiel stared towards the outer room for a couple of moments. John remained silent, certain now that the angel was going to speak more freely. He just had to have a little patience. "I am not sure how best to explain this so that it makes sense to you," Castiel said finally. "Please understand, what I am telling you is the truth, that any confusion you might feel is a deficit in my explanation."

"Just tell me."

"Time travel is possible," Castiel said first, and John blinked at him. "Do you recall the young man who encouraged you not to buy the Volkswagen van, but to instead select the Impala?"

John tilted his head, considering the matter. There _had_ been an odd young man, one who'd seemed a few logs short of a raft. He hadn't thought of him in years. "Yeah, I remember him." Castiel looked down at Dean, and John followed the direction of the angel's eyes. John had a sudden blinding flash of realization, and he gave Castiel an incredulous look.

"He does not look himself at this time, but you see it, do you not?"

"How is that possible?"

"In the fall of 2008, I was instructed that there were certain events in 1973 that Dean needed to witness directly."

"Wait, what?" John shook his head. "2008 hasn't happened yet."

"Please be patient. I will try to explain it all." John pursed his lips, but he nodded. At that moment, a nurse walked in. John looked up to see how Castiel would react and discovered that the angel was gone.

As she checked the monitors, she glanced over at John. "Hi, my name is Rosie."

"John," he said numbly.

"I'm working the afternoon shift." She finished checking the monitors, made a few notes, and erased Maureen's name on the whiteboard, replacing it with her own. "Let me know if he needs anything," she said, and then she left.

John watched her go, still trying to wrap his mind around time travel as a reality. "John?"

"You're saying that Dean is the guy who told me to buy the Impala," John said, looking back at the angel.

"He was, or perhaps will have been." Castiel looked dissatisfied. "Time travel confuses verb tense somewhat. I took him into the past, and he interacted with people there. You, Mary, Mary's family."

"Mary?"

Castiel nodded impatiently. "He also met Azazel, who had possessed Samuel Campbell."

John's jaw dropped. "Azazel was . . . he killed Mary's parents?"

"Mary's parents and you."

John raised his eyebrows. "I'm not dead," he said.

"No, you are not, but you were. Azazel broke your neck to force Mary to make a deal with him."

"No." John didn't want to hear this.

Castiel seemed to recognize his reaction because he didn't pursue the subject. "Regardless, Dean met Azazel and they spoke, Dean believing him to be his grandfather." John closed his eyes. "Mary had run off with you, and Dean believed her to be in danger from Azazel, so he told his grandfather the truth, who he was and what had happened. Azazel revealed himself, and Dean told him that in the future, he would kill him."

"He threatened him?"

"No, Dean actually did kill Azazel. Will kill Azazel. Would have killed Azazel." Castiel shook his head. "The point is, Azazel was intrigued by this, and that is why he took Dean."

"If some of this hasn't happened yet, how do you know about any of it?"

"I was there, I sent Dean back in time, went with him. When my path intersected with Azazel's change of plans, I became aware that the timeline had altered."

"This does sound pretty nuts."

"An angel's sense of time is not as linear as yours is," Castiel said. "I confess, this is extremely disorienting. I don't ordinarily remember the future, but I am part of this change, and as such, I am aware of its constituents. You see, I have been in the past while being aware of events that took place far in the future, and as such, I have access to some of those memories. They confuse me sometimes, because I do not altogether understand how the events came about, but I recall the . . ." He paused, looked down at Dean's face, and seemed almost to compose himself. "I recall the close friendship that Dean and I developed. He does not, of course, and will not, but I still feel that emotional connection. And I feel that I know him."

John didn't feel up to trying to figure that out. "So what is this change in the timeline that's got things so screwed up?"

"Azazel's abduction of Dean should not have happened. Roughly two weeks before you sought Sam out, Dean should have gone to get him to help search for you as a result of the message you left for him from Jericho."

John shook his head. "The complete lack of response to that message is one of the things that tipped me off that something was wrong. But why would he have been looking for me?"

"The message you left has EVP on it that would have alarmed Dean if he had gotten it."

"Oh."

"The first change that I know of, however, appears to be the demon in the girl, Jessica. In my other set of memories, Jessica died as Mary did."

"My God." John rubbed his hand over his face. "At least Sammy was spared that."

"Indeed," Castiel said. "But that is why I feel more for Dean than you would expect. I have spent several years in frequent contact with him, and this is not the first time I have defied the will of Heaven for him."

John gulped. "It's not?"

Castiel looked up. "I must go. Detection would be disastrous." He fixed John with an intent look. "If anyone else approaches you and claims to be an angel, do not trust them. They should not be able to see Dean, but you must be very careful. I will return as soon as I may, and I will let you know that I'm back." And then he was gone as if he had never been there, with the sound of wings beating the air.

* * *

When Sam woke up, he could hear the shower going in the bathroom. He felt a lot less dead, and the fact that he hadn't dreamed about his brother being tortured contributed a lot to that. He got up and started getting ready to go back to the hospital. He didn't care what Dean said, he was . . . okay, he cared a lot what Dean said, but he wasn't letting that keep him away.

Pushing emotion aside, he pulled on his clothes and started brushing through his hair. Going to sleep with it wet always left it in knots. The water shut off, and Sam could hear Bobby moving around. There was a knock at the door, and Sam glanced at the time. It was past eight at night.

"That'll be the pizza I ordered," Bobby called from in the bathroom. "Money's on the dresser."

Sam went and grabbed the bills on the dresser and opened the door. A teenaged girl with an eyebrow piercing and unnaturally black hair held a red, insulated bag. "Large meat lover's pizza and a two-liter of Coke." She stood there, not opening the bag, and waited expectantly. Finally Sam showed her the cash, and she slid the pizza out. They made the exchange and then she left without another word.

"Bye," he said, and then he shut the door, shaking his head.

"What's wrong?"

"Evidently, motel room deliveries aren't her favorite," he said.

"They sent a girl to a motel at this time of night?" Bobby asked, his eyebrows going up. "I hope she has a gun." He grabbed the pizza and opened it up. "Have a slice."

"I thought we were going back to the hospital."

"We are, just as soon as you've explained that little aside about angels to me."

Sam blinked at him. "Bobby, I really didn't . . . that was just . . ." He fumbled for a couple of minutes, then shook his head. "It isn't going to work, is it?"

"Nope."

"You mind if I call my dad real quick?"

"Go right ahead." Bobby opened up the Coke and started pouring it into the cheap plastic glasses that the motel provided for tooth brushing.

Sam drew aside and dialed his cell phone, calling the hospital. He got himself put through to Dean's room and his father came on sounding mildly testy. "What is it, Sammy?"

"Dad, I inadvertently slipped up about . . . you know."

"No, I don't know."

"Castiel," Sam said, glancing towards Bobby who was pretending he was miles away and couldn't hear a thing. "Bobby's insisting that I explain myself."

"Go ahead," John replied, and Sam's jaw dropped. "He says he wants Bobby to find out about him away from the hospital because, and this is a quote, 'He has a somewhat volatile reaction to unfamiliar supernatural entities.'"

"That's . . . accurate. Okay, so I'll tell him." He grimaced. "I've got some things I should tell you, too, though, stuff that Castiel said to me."

"Later, Sammy. Just fill Bobby – what?"

"What, what?"

"Are you sure? Don't upset yourself." Sam realized that Dad wasn't talking to him and just waited. "Your brother wants to talk to you, Sammy."

"Sure."

"Hey, jerk, where are you?" Dean said, and he only sounded a little slurred.

"I thought I was the bitch," Sam replied, not sure if this was a prelude to Dean telling him to get as far gone as possible.

"I'm tired, you'll have to be both."

"Okay, I can do that," Sam said. Maybe Dad had convinced him after all. "I'm across the street, at a motel with Bobby. We'll be coming over as soon as I fill Bobby in on Castiel."

"Good," Dean said, and Sam closed his eyes with relief that Dean wasn't pursuing this effort to get him to leave town. "When you come . . . bring pie." Sam had the sense that Dean had been about to say something else, something way more emotional, but that he'd backed off at the last second. He didn't care.

"Sure, Dean, see you soon."

Sam started to hang up, but his father's voice caught him. "You guys stay together, you hear me, Sammy? Don't you go wandering off on your own."

"All right, Dad," Sam said, nettled. "I'll stick with my babysitter." He hung up and turned towards Bobby, who was gazing at him with a faintly disapproving expression. "He treats me like I'm still a kid."

"You're his kid, and that's just the way it is, Sam," Bobby said, sighing. "Sit down, have a piece of pizza, and tell me about this Castiel character."

Sam sat and took a slice of pizza, picking off a couple of morsels of fatty ground beef. "Do you believe in angels?" he asked.

"I believe in demons, why not angels?"

Sam looked down at his pizza. "We appear to have attracted one, or rather Dean has. Not sure how or when, but we saw him on the road briefly. Dad thought he was a demon, but he was there for so short a time it was kind of hard to know anything about him."

"What did he do?"

"Appeared right in front of us on the freeway," Sam said. "I had to pull off the road because I thought he was a person, and then he appeared again on the shoulder, way too far along the road to have run there. Then he was gone, and we just got moving again. That was the incident that made Dad think he should drive all the way himself."

"Glad he got past that. I take it you've seen this angel since then?"

"I was talking to him when you got to the ICU. He said he wasn't ready to meet you."

Suspicion sharpened the older hunter's voice. "Why would that be?"

"Dad quoted him on the phone to me," Sam said. "Something about you having a volatile reaction to, you know, stuff . . . supernatural stuff."

Bobby made a face and shrugged. "Okay, that's fair enough, not that I would have endangered your brother."

"Yeah, but you might have endangered your ability to come in and sit with him," Sam pointed out. "If you'd gotten, well, volatile." He didn't feel like spelling out possible reactions that Bobby could have had.

"You've made your point," Bobby said dourly. "Now, explain what you meant about him not reading your mind."

Sam shrugged. "We talked for a while while Dean was asleep," he said. "And among the things he told me is that he can read the surface thoughts of most humans. But not me. He said it was weird, and that other angels would be made uncomfortable by me. What did that demon do to me to make me so different?"

"I don't know, Sam," Bobby said. "Tell me what else this 'angel' told you."

Sam shook his head. "He said that all demons are the warped souls of the damned."

Bobby tilted his head thoughtfully. "Hunh."

"That make sense to you?" Sam asked.

"Don't know why it wouldn't," Bobby replied. "Actually, it makes a hell of a lot of sense. More sense than a lot of the nonsense I've seen before."

"He told me that the change is for good, that they can't come back from it. That they're not 'people' anymore."

Bobby shrugged. "Well, someone who gets bitten by a werewolf ain't people no more," he said. "Same as vampires."

"There are no vampires," Sam objected. "They're extinct."

"Mostly," Bobby agreed.

"Mostly?" Sam repeated. "Wait, I thought –"

"Could we get back to the subject of angels?" Bobby asked. "You know, the one that actually concerns us right now?" Sam looked away. "I mean, you tell me an angel is hanging around your brother, and your daddy doesn't mind? He believes in it?"

"I guess," Sam said. "I haven't really had a chance to talk to him much."

"What else did he say to you, Sam?"

"A bunch of stuff." Sam stood up and started pacing. "He wasn't surprised that I was having dreams. He seems to know that the demon did something to me. He was with Dean and Azazel for like nine plus hours, stuck in some kind of circle of fire. I saw that, it was a perfect circle. Um . . . he saw the demon torturing Dean. That was how the dreams came up." Bobby was watching him with a pensive expression. "He kept stopping Dean's nightmares with a touch." Sam's brows knit as he thought back. "And I think he put me to sleep," he said, abruptly outraged.

"He did what?"

"He kept telling me I hadn't gotten enough sleep, during our first conversation, and then he just reached towards me and touched my forehead. Next thing I know, I'm waking up because Dean kicked me in the head." He was appalled. "The angel put me to sleep without even asking permission."

"He probably figured you wouldn't give it," Bobby observed.

"Damn right I wouldn't, I was there to keep watch on Dean, which is hard to do while I'm sleeping. I didn't know Castiel from Adam, and I wasn't absolutely convinced, yet, that he wasn't a demon. Mostly, more than two-thirds, but he said he couldn't prove it because it would interfere with the medical equipment." Bobby raised his eyebrows and Sam shrugged. "And that's the other thing. He told me that angels possess people."

"Possess? What do you mean?"

"He said they have to be voluntary, he called them vessels, but to interact with humans, they have to take human hosts."

Bobby's eyes went distant, and he walked over to the suitcase that sat beside his bed. He reached in for a book and started flipping through it. "'And taking the forms of men, they walked among the people,'" he read after a minute. "I think everyone just assumes that means they transformed into men, but 'taking the forms of men' could mean taking over their bodies."

"Well, Castiel said that the reason he's wearing a trench coat and a suit is that he's still wearing his vessel's clothing."

"He's wearing a trench coat?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah, and a rumpled suit. I don't know if his vessel is lazy about his appearance or if Castiel doesn't know that the tie is supposed to be worn a little closer to the neck."

"Doesn't really matter, I'm guessing," Bobby said. "I don't know as I'd care to give sartorial tips to a messenger of God."

"If he's a messenger, why's he still here?" Sam asked. "Shouldn't he have delivered his message and headed back to whatever angels call Miller time?"

"I don't know, kid. Anything else?"

Sam shook his head. "No. I don't suppose you noticed a bakery or a grocery store near here?"

"Sure, both, why?"

"Dean wants pie."


	23. Chapter 23

Special Agent Calvin Denson stared at the charred box and shook his head. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be seeing here," he said, glancing at Garry McAvoy, who was supposed to be their very own version of Abby Scuito, _NCIS_ 's formidable forensic scientist. "It's a box, a little bigger than a coffin. I saw it in the building after the fire."

"Right," Garry said, glancing over at the young man who appeared to be some kind of forensic minion. "Melissa, would you give Tommy a hand?" Haynes glanced over to check with him, and Denson nodded. She went to join Tommy, and together they opened the box with extreme care. Inside, it was almost untouched. There were brittle bits of foam, and Denson got an extremely ugly picture in his head when he realized what shape they described.

"Oh my God," Haynes murmured.

"Yup, a handy-dandy captive-carrying case," Garry said with a relish that Denson found a little disturbing. "Complete with tie-downs, ventilation and soundproofing. Fortunately, it was on the side of the room, so it caught relatively little of the fire beyond the heat."

"You're saying that the Winchester kid was put inside this thing?" Denson asked.

Garry nodded. "We found fingerprints inside the box, here and here." He pointed towards where the hands would have rested. "And some inside the lid." He gestured to spots that corresponded to where a man inside the thing would have put his hands to try and push the lid up. "Winchester has a rap sheet as a juvenile, so we've matched his prints. We also have blood of his type inside the box in several spots, together with some odd compounds that the lab is having fits about."

"Why are they having fits?" Denson asked.

"They're having trouble identifying the components, but they'll get there."

"Anything else?"

Garry led them off to another part of the lab. "There's almost nothing left of the table, but Winchester's blood is on the chains that were attached to it. And as you know, there were a lot of fingerprints to be found at the site. A lot of them are old, from the guys who used that building as the home for their 'secret society,' but we've tracked down another set that are very interesting." At this point they'd reached his desk. He picked up a file and handed it to Denson. "A dentist named Andrew Sean Munn. He went missing about three months ago from Peoria, Illinois. Wife reported him missing, it's all there, along with the phone number of the investigating officer." Denson nodded and handed it off to Haynes. "But one thing, that box, with the additional weight of a full grown man, would be over four hundred pounds. No way one guy is lifting it into a vehicle by himself, and we found no signs of lifting equipment."

"Okay," Denson said. His phone rang, and he looked at the readout. Dispatch. He glanced at Haynes, and she took over getting the last details from Garry. He stepped aside and flipped his phone open. "Denson."

"We got a call from Graysville, Cal." Denson raised his eyebrows. The SAC himself calling meant it had to be less than stellar news. "They found one unholy mess in that abandoned subdivision north of town. This place was abandoned, not burned, though, so there's a lot more evidence."

"Are they maintaining the scene?" Denson asked.

"Just waiting for you to show," Special Agent in Charge Grogg said.

Denson looked up and saw that Haynes was ready. Nodding, he led the way out towards the car. "We're on our way. Thanks, Bill." He hung up and opened his car door.

"What is it?" Haynes asked.

"Graysville," he said, then he settled into the passenger side. Haynes handed him the report on the dentist as she climbed into the driver's seat. "That abandoned subdivision."

"Okay," she said, and she started moving. Denson flipped through the file, but it was the standard missing person shtick. No one would ever have expected Munn to leave his family, no one had any idea where he could have gone, he'd left everything behind. A little like the Winchester kid, except that his personal effects had been removed from the car. Of course, it was easier to take his stuff than the dentist's. With no fixed address, Winchester had limited possessions, whereas Munn had a wife, two kids and a mortgage. Cal mulled that over for a second, then shook his head. Closing the file, he made a mental note to call the Detective Cheney mentioned as the investigating officer when he got back to the office.

"Tell me what we know about John Winchester," he said to Haynes.

She glanced sideways at him. She still hadn't come to realize the benefit of going over what they both already knew in case some random fact jarred an idea loose. "Born in Lawrence, Kansas, 1953 to Henry and Millicent Winchester. Married in 1974 to Mary Campbell. First child born was our victim, January 1979, second was Samuel, May 1983." She paused. "Sir, I don't really understand why you're so interested in our victim's father. He's not a suspect, is he?"

"No," Denson said. "But I can't help feeling that he's important somehow. How did he know to go to Graysville? And it's not like that old Elk hall had a sign pointing to it."

"I see what you mean. He didn't explain it?"

"Just that he traced the movement of the 'cult' as he called it." He shook his head. Garry had said that there was no way the box could have been moved by a single man, which implied a group. "Go on."

"Mary Winchester died in 1983, and it was shortly after that when John and the children dropped off the grid."

"That's the time period that interests me, because he has a completely clean record apart from one or two traffic citations up till then."

"And after that he has some odd charges, I have to say," Haynes said. "I don't remember them all, but pretty weird stuff, some of it. Weapons charges, of course, and grave desecration."

"Do we know what Dean's record is for?"

"I think they're trying to get the records unsealed," she said. "We could always ask them."

"That's the kind of question you don't ask until you know the answer," he said.

The drive to Graysville wasn't very long. There were county guys all over the subdivision, and Denson wondered what they were doing. Haynes parked across the street from where the apparent focus for all the activity was, and they walked over. The local deputies didn't so much lead them to where they were going as point. That wasn't exactly abnormal, but as they walked into the hallway off the great room of the unfinished house, the smell of bloody death began to fill his nose. He glanced over at Haynes to see how she was holding up, and, though she was pale, she was in control. So far as he was aware, she'd never worked a case with scenes like could be expected here.

The room was a horror show. Haynes adapted quickly, going within the space of a couple of moments from taut silence to pointing out features of interest. Cal was proud of her, because the space was truly hideous. In spots blood had clearly fountained to the ceiling, and there were actually jars of it in one of the corners. Almost perfectly square blank spots on the rough wooden flooring showed where the table had stood.

"There's no way he could have lost this amount of blood and lived," Haynes said, her voice hushed.

They examined the room and then got out of the way of the techs. Outside in the clear air was much more comfortable, though the contrast between the crisp, clear air, the ordinary sights of construction, and the hideous room inside that house made things seem mildly surreal. "Cal!" Denson looked up and saw Deputy Mike Patterson heading towards him. "We've got the developer here. I thought you'd want to ask him some questions yourself."

"Thanks, I would." He followed the sheriff's deputy over to Warren Jennings. They'd met a time or two, so no time was wasted with preliminaries. "Your people been out here anytime in the last few weeks?" Denson asked.

"Not since mid-October," Jennings replied. "And I just found out that Jake wasn't paying the security company, so they'd stopped even making patrols. The insurance company is going to be thrilled."

Denson glanced over at Haynes to make sure she was getting all this. "Yeah, so who do you have on record being here in October?"

"I'll have to have Delia call you with that," Jennings said. "And I don't know exactly when the security guys stopped coming by. You'll have to contact them directly to find out who it was and when."

Denson left it to Haynes to get the particulars and pulled Deputy Patterson aside. "Mike, what led you here?"

"A kid with a dog," Patterson said. "Both mother and son are hysterical and have been sedated. They didn't touch anything so far as we know, and we've impounded the dog to get evidence off him."

"Fun," Denson said. "Well, until we get fingerprints and blood tests back, we won't be absolutely sure it's our case, but it sure looks like it. Any sign that someone was living in there?"

"Plumbing's been used by the simple expedient of dumping water down the toilet, and there's some evidence of fast food in the kitchen. Other than that, nothing."

"And I take it there were no reports of trespassers on the property?"

"Nothing," Patterson replied. "Even the vandalism we'd been having died down, if you can believe that."

"Maybe you should check with the usual suspects, see if they saw anything that made them steer clear."

Patterson's eyebrows went up. "I'd hope they'd report it, but that might make our job too easy."

"Yup." Denson sighed. "Well, I've still got to interview the rest of the victim's family and see if they'll let me interview the victim."

"They're not letting you in?"

"And he's had surgery twice now for internal bleeding. Much as I hate to say it, I'm afraid if I don't get in to see him soon, I won't get to see him at all."

"That's rough, because it's not like you can tell the family that."

"Let me know what you find out from your local delinquents."

"Sure thing."

Denson looked around at the plywood and timber neighborhood and wondered if it would ever be finished, and if anyone would want to live there when this news broke.

* * *

Sam walked away from the doors to the ICU trying not to feel angry that he'd been turned away. Bobby was with Dean, they weren't excluding him on purpose, he knew that, but he couldn't help being angry. After about five minutes with Dean, someone had shown up and told them that John really needed to go back to his room. Leaving Bobby with Dean, Sam had taken John back so he could fill him in on the rest of what Castiel had said about him. Dad hadn't had much to say himself, and he'd fallen asleep pretty quickly, so Sam had come back. Sighing, he walked toward the nearby waiting room. Before he got there, he heard a voice.

"Samuel Winchester?"

He turned and saw a man who looked indefinably like a cop. Of course, the young woman hovering attentively at his side, and the telltale bulges both of them displayed at the hip were good hints, but this guy just had a look about him beyond that. "That's me," he said. "Sam."

"My name is Special Agent Calvin Denson, and I'm investigating what happened to your brother. Can we talk to you for a few minutes?"

Briefly, Sam felt a flash of anger at the thought that the ICU might have refused him admittance because Denson had asked them to make sure he was available, but he repressed that. Hospitals didn't act that way. "Sure, why don't we sit down," he said, gesturing towards the waiting room. They all sat down, the girl a couple of seats off.

"When did you become aware that there was a problem?" Denson asked.

Sam shrugged. "When Dad showed up at my apartment on Thursday," he said.

"When was the last time you saw your brother?"

"About two and a half years ago," Sam replied uncomfortably.

"That seems odd for a guy who moves around as much as your brother," Denson said, tilting his head. "Do you two not get on?"

Sam ground his teeth. "Dean and I always got on fine, except he does whatever Dad tells him and I don't."

"I take it you and your dad haven't always gotten along?" Denson asked.

"No," Sam said, not sure what the point would be in trying to sugar coat it. "Neither of them wanted me to go to college, so it caused kind of a rift when I went."

"But you've seen your brother since then?"

"What's the point of all this?" Sam asked. "What does it have to do with what happened to Dean?"

"We need to trace down who might have been connected to your brother."

Sam shook his head. "The last time I saw Dean was on May 2nd, 2003," he said. "He came out for my birthday." Sam grimaced at the memory. In retrospect, it seemed pretty rotten. "I wasn't very welcoming, and I haven't seen him again. He stopped calling about eighteen months or so ago. I . . ." He shook his head. "I thought he should quit following Dad around, and he wanted me to quit school and go back out on the road with him. I wasn't interested."

"What does your brother do to support himself?"

"Odd jobs," Sam said with a shrug. "He's one of the best mechanics out there, especially for classic cars. Like I said, I haven't seen him in a while, so I don't really know."

Denson looked down at some notes he had on a pad of paper. "Please don't take this question the wrong way, I just want to know everything about your brother that I can." Sam waited. "Your brother was arrested in Sioux City, Iowa in October of 1993. I wondered if you knew why."

Sam knew the cop just needed to know what Dean might have been involved with, and every past action was relevant to their query. Still, it was an annoying question. "I do," he said.

After a pause during which Sam didn't speak, Denson raised his eyebrows. "Will you tell me?"

"Sure. He stole a car, but you've got to understand the circumstances." Sam looked out the window. "I was ten, and I tripped in our apartment, fell, and cut my head open on the corner of the end table," he said. Sam remembered every moment of that night with vivid clarity. Concussions could do that sometimes. "He called 911, but they didn't come and they didn't come." Dean had been nearly frantic. Dad had been off hunting some kind of poltergeist, if Sam remembered right. "Anyway, Dean gave up waiting after a while and jacked a car to take me to the hospital himself." Sam shrugged. "The owner saw him drive away, and so the cops were right behind us in minutes. I don't really know everything that happened after that. I mean, I was ten and no one really told me much. I just know they stopped the car and took Dean, and I wound up going to the hospital in the back of a police car." Dad had been furious when he'd shown up, but to this day, Sam wasn't sure who he was maddest at, the cops for being idiots or Dean for letting Sam get hurt.

"Oh." Denson finished making a note and looked up. "So, how did you and your father find out where Dean was?"

"That's kind of hard to explain," Sam said. Somehow he didn't want to tell these cops that he'd started having nightmares about what was happening to his brother and then had felt kind of like he'd turned into a Dean dowsing rod. "I need to get back to him if they'll –"

A woman came out. "Sammy?" she said, and Sam nodded, not disputing the nickname. "Your brother needs you."

"Excuse me," Sam muttered automatically as he made straight for the open doors to the ICU.

The nurse followed him in. "He isn't actually very rational. We're not sure exactly what happened."

Sam hurried into Dean's room where he found him holding off a nurse and a doctor with a pair of scissors. "Sammy!" Dean exclaimed, eyes wide with anxiety. "Make them stop. I don't want to. Don't let them!"

As Sam slipped around the doctor and nurse, the doctor grabbed onto his coat. Sam shrugged out of it instantly and kept going. He heard the doctor speak, but didn't process the words.

"Dean, what is it?"

"I don't want them to," Dean said, his eyes still on the doctor and nurse. Part of Sam was wondering where Bobby was, but most of him was focused on Dean and the scissors.

Sam wanted to get everyone out of the room, but he didn't think that would be possible while Dean still had the scissors. "Dean, I won't let them do anything to hurt you," he said. "Give me the scissors. You're freaking everybody out."

"I don't care. They're working for Him."

The pronoun was clearly capitalized, and Sam blinked. "I won't let them hurt you, Dean," he said again. "You know I won't. Please, give me the scissors."

"They took Bobby away, and then they . . ." Dean was clearly losing steam. He shuddered and collapsed a little, barely holding himself up on an elbow. "Sammy," he said, his eyes finally reaching Sam's.

Sam put an arm around his brother and cradled him close. "I got you, Dean," he said softly. "No one's going to hurt you." Dean relaxed against him, and Sam was able to get the pair of scissors out of his hand. He handed it off to someone, he didn't actually see who, and stroked Dean's hair. "No one's going to hurt you." He looked around and hoped someone would get the message that they needed to leave.

Everyone but the nurse left. "Mr. Winchester, we're going to need to talk to you as soon as we can," she said. Sam nodded, but he kept his attention on Dean.

"What happened, Dean?" he asked. It disturbed him mightily to have his strong, controlling brother reduced to such a state of dependency. "Can you tell me?"

"They wanted . . ." Dean's voice was weak and he had to pause to breathe. "They wanted to do a procedure."

If Sam hadn't heard those very words out of Azazel's mouth in many, many dreams, he wouldn't have understood, but a sick feeling washed over him at the realization of what that word had to mean to Dean now.

Bobby walked in, wiping his hands back and forth on the seams of his pants. "What the hell?" he demanded, staring at them.


	24. Chapter 24

"Where were you?" Sam demanded quietly, glaring up at the older man. Dean hunched a little at the intensity of his tone, and he stroked his brother's hair again to help relax him.

"I went to the bathroom," Bobby said, and Sam closed his eyes. "He was asleep when I left, and I wasn't gone more than five minutes."

Sam nodded impatiently. Bathroom breaks were inevitable. "Dean? Can I leave you with Bobby for a couple of minutes?"

"They took him away," Dean muttered, and Sam sensed Bobby's dismayed reaction.

"He's back, and he's not leaving again. Okay, Dean?"

"Where's Dad?"

"He's safe, in his room, sleeping," Sam said. "Do you want him?"

"No, leave him, I just . . . you're coming back, right?"

"Yes, Dean. I'll be right back."

"Okay." Sam managed to ease his brother back down on the bed and pulled the covers up. Bobby took his place, holding Dean's hand. Dean was going to die of embarrassment if he remembered stuff like this.

Taking a deep breath, Sam walked out of the room. A nurse met him at the door and started to speak, but Sam shook his head and pulled the woman out of Dean's earshot. "What happened?" Sam asked then, before the nurse could say anything.

"When your uncle was away in the bathroom, we thought it would be a good time to do a CT scan, but before we could even get started moving him, he panicked and pulled out that pair of scissors from somewhere in his bedding." Sam closed his eyes. Trust Dean to sneak a weapon at his first opportunity. "Look, if your brother's going to be violent, we may have to restrain him."

"No!" Sam retorted firmly. He glanced at her badge and saw the name Beverly. "Beverly, right?" She nodded. "No way. You want to take a man who has been tied down and tortured and tie him down?"

Beverly grimaced. "The staff's safety is a consideration."

Sam shook his head when she started to protest. "I'm not saying that staff safety isn't important, but it was a word that set him off. Procedure. Did someone say that word when you were talking about what you needed to do?"

"Of course, I told him it was a perfectly simple procedure," Beverly said.

Sam nodded. "That's what the bastard who cut on him said before he started cutting. It's time for your next procedure."

All the fight drained out of her. "Damn it!" she muttered angrily. "So I did it to him. Son of a –" She cut herself off before the obvious end to the phrase, but Sam had to agree with the sentiment.

"There's another word you need to avoid. Treatment. I don't know if there are others, but I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't start anything like that without one of us in the room. Dean is just too . . ." Sam swallowed a lump in his throat. "He's too fragile right now. He needs his family around him at all times if possible."

"There are things you can't be present for," Beverly said.

"Then we'll need to be there when you explain them to Dean, and we'll need to be in easy reach if he panics. At least for now, when it's so easy for him to hurt himself."

Her eyes strayed to the open doorway to Dean's room. "I can agree with that," she said. "And I'll make sure everyone knows that those two words are off limits."

"Thanks," he said. "Do you still need to . . ." He paused, struggling with the insanity of it all. "Do that procedure?" he finished with a grimace.

"Yes, but it will have to be later. We'll let you know."

"Thanks," Sam said. He paused irresolutely. Should he go tell Dad what had happened, or should he stay with Dean? The thought that the FBI might still be out there, ready with more questions, decided him. He headed into the room and stopped, staring at his brother. Dean's right arm was absolutely rigid with tension, and Sam had a feeling that Bobby was losing the feeling in his fingers from the way Dean was gripping his hand. Some of that tension left his body when he saw Sam in the doorway.

"Damn, you did get tall," he said, and his voice only quavered a little.

"He's taller'n your dad now," Bobby observed.

Sam walked over and sat down. "Kind of surprised me when he showed up."

"What did happen, Sammy?" Dean asked. "I can't imagine you'd even let him into your place."

"I didn't. He broke in." Dean laughed a little, and Sam was glad to see it. "He was there when I got home." Sam turned his thoughts resolutely away from what his plans had been that night. "He'd already half-packed for me, but he couldn't figure out which was my shampoo."

"That's easy, the girly one," Dean said, and Sam considered the two shampoos that had dwelt in that bathroom and had to acknowledge, if only internally, that his choice had been girlier.

"He said he didn't recognize anything in that bathroom as shampoo," Sam said.

"I don't doubt that," Dean said. "You were buying fruity stuff back when you were fifteen. I always said you should have been a girl."

"Ha ha ha," Sam muttered. "Very funny."

Dean grinned, a faint glimmer of his old mockery. "I know," he said.

"So . . . what happened earlier?" Bobby winced and Sam knew that Dean had clamped down on his hand again. He stood up and reached over Dean, covering his brother's hand with his own. "Dean, I know this is a difficult question, but Bobby needs his hand in one piece." Dean gave him a pathetic look, but he released Bobby's hand. He started to cross his arms and tuck his hands away, but Sam wouldn't let him. He caught the nearer hand and held it himself.

"What?" Dean asked.

"We need to talk about the last couple of months a bit, so we can try to keep stuff like what happened earlier from happening again."

Dean shook his head. "I can't talk . . . no."

"Dean, we have to know."

"You saw me. You know."

Sam raised eyebrows. How could Dean know about the dreams? "You know about that?" he asked, horrified.

"Well, you were there, weren't you? I mean, you had to be." He gestured vaguely at his body, and Sam suddenly understood.

"Yeah, I was there," he said. "I carried you out."

"You? Carried me?"

"Yeah," Sam glanced around and leaned closer to Dean. "Dad was busy letting Castiel out of the circle."

Dean's eyes widened. "You saw Castiel?"

Sam nodded. "You were wrapped in his trench coat when I picked you up."

Dean flushed, the blotchy red standing out against his pallor. "Oh, God. I was naked. I was naked, wasn't I?"

"That wasn't my primary concern, Dean, you were bleeding from everywhere."

"But I was naked!"

Sam rolled her eyes. "Yeah, Dean, you were naked. You looked silly. You satisfied?" Dean hunched a little and Sam reached out to flick his ear. "Don't be an idiot, Dean."

"You don't get it, Sammy. I was . . . it was the whole . . ." He took a shuddering breath. "I haven't had anything on since September."

Sam's jaw dropped, and he felt his eyes fill up with tears. He flashed a glance at Bobby because he knew he wasn't going to be able to control himself much longer. The sight of the appalled look on Bobby's face was the last straw, and Sam felt tears start rolling down his cheeks.

"Sammy?" Dean leaned closer. "Sammy, it'll be okay. It's okay."

Sam shook his head and tried to force the tears to stop. "Don't worry about me, Dean, I'm fine." He scrubbed his cheeks dry one-handed. "I just . . . I wish I could make it so none of that happened."

"Sammy, hey, I was overreacting. Since when have I ever been self-conscious about nudity?"

Sam recalled a few times when he'd been less than appropriately self-conscious about being naked, but that wasn't the point. "Dean, ignore me, I'm just – you don't need to comfort me. I'm fine."

"Dean," Bobby said, and Dean turned towards him. "You don't need to comfort him, boy. We're all going to be a little upset sometimes because we're angry and unhappy about what happened to you. You can't make that go away, and it isn't your fault, so don't you dare even try to apologize."

Sam could tell that Dean didn't like that, but he squeezed his brother's hand. Bobby's remarks had given him time to get himself back under control. When Dean turned towards him again, he said, "Dean, can you just tell me what happened earlier that got you so freaked out?"

"Nothing," Dean said. Here it was, Sam thought. The embarrassment. The unwillingness to admit to weakness.

"Please, Dean, I just want to help, and I'm not a kid anymore."

"Are so," Dean replied, giving him a look that Sam recognized. It was the 'lead the little brother down the garden path' look.

"Dean," Sam said pleadingly.

Dean closed his eyes. "I'm tired." Sam couldn't fight that. He had no doubt that Dean was tired most of the time. He exchanged a helpless look with Bobby and sat back in his chair. Despite his pretense at sleep, Dean did not relinquish his hold on Sam's hand. In fact, even when he clearly had dropped off, his grip barely slackened. Sam bit his lip to keep from crying again at how desperate Dean seemed to be for contact. He felt stupid crying, but it was hard to see Dean like this. He looked skinny, soft, and Dean had never been soft. Even when they were kids, he'd always been solid muscle.

"You want something to read?" Bobby asked quietly.

Sam nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Bobby left the room and Sam sat with Dean, wishing for a magic bullet that would just fix all of this.

* * *

John glowered up at Dr. Gordon. "Yes, but are you going to release me?"

"Yes," she said. "However, you need to take it easy, Mr. Winchester."

"Just as easy as I can," he said. "So, can we speed through the paperwork?"

He cajoled his way through the paperwork as quickly as he could and sweet-talked them into letting him walk up to the ICU on his own two feet. Hospital policy dictated that he should be pushed to the front door of the hospital, but since he wouldn't be leaving the hospital any time soon, that policy made no sense whatsoever.

He heard tense voices in the hallway just outside the ICU, both of which he recognized, so when he turned the corner he was prepared for what he saw. Sam was facing off against Agent Denson. "It's just not going to work," Sam said.

"I really need to speak to your brother, Sam," Denson said.

"Look, he got hysterical just knowing you were out here," Sam replied, and John's lips tightened. "They had to sedate him. He's not conscious."

"Is he afraid of us?"

That straightened Sammy's back. "No, he's just . . . he's not afraid of you." Then he caught sight of John and turned towards him. "Dad? They released you?"

"Yup. What's going on?"

"The feds want to talk to Dean, but when Maureen came and told us they were here, Dean . . . well, he didn't react well."

"Maybe you two can encourage him to talk to us later," Denson suggested.

"I'll do what I can," John said, not really meaning it. If Dean didn't want to see the police, John wasn't forcing him.

"You do want us to catch the man who did this to your son, don't you?" Denson asked.

"I want him stopped," John replied honestly.

Denson's eyebrows went up, and John could tell the fed had caught the point of his response. "Well, we'll do that more readily if we can talk to Dean and find out what happened to him."

"If he gets to that point, we'll let you know," Sam said. "But right now it's out of the question. He can't even talk to us about what happened."

"At a minimum we need a description of his assailant," Denson said.

John was about to intervene. He was proud of how Sam was handling himself, but now that he was here, he could take care of things. Sam spoke before he could. "Jeff Bridges," he said, and John blinked, caught flat-footed. "He told me that the guy looked exactly like Jeff Bridges, for what it's worth."

"At what age?" Denson's partner asked, but before any of them could answer, Denson put a hand on her shoulder. He pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. Her eyes widened.

"Thank you," Denson said. "You've been very helpful."

John reached out to stop them, but restrained himself before he could be accused of assaulting a police officer. "What is it?"

"I'm afraid I can't be specific, sir," Denson replied, "but we have a lead. Thank you."

They left and Sam grabbed John's sleeve and pulled him towards the waiting room. "I've got something I need to tell you before you go in," he said.

John let himself be towed, but he didn't really want to delay seeing Dean for very long. "What is it?"

"I just don't want you getting caught by this the way I did," Sam said. "Dean did mention something about what happened, but I wasn't going to tell you by telling them, if you know what I mean."

"Go on."

"Dean started getting stressed out over the fact that he was naked when we found him." John nodded. "And he told me it wasn't just that he was naked then, but that the guy had kept him naked for the whole time."

Fury surged through John, but he locked it down. Anger right now did him no good. He could channel it later in constructive ways. He didn't speak until he was sure his voice would be steady and calm. "Is there anything else I should know?"

Sam was looking at him uneasily, but he answered the question without hesitation. "The words 'procedure' and 'treatment' are off limits for anyone around Dean, and the nursing staff should know that."

John's brows knit. "Why?"

Sam blinked at him blankly. "Didn't I tell you what . . . maybe not." He gulped. "Azazel called the cutting of the designs procedures, and that acidy stuff he used to glue them shut, that was treatment." Another surge of rage rocked John, but he forced it down as well. "So, last night, one of the nurses told Dean that they needed to do a 'simple procedure' and he became convinced that they were working for Azazel and panicked. I don't know when he got it, but he had a pair of scissors in the bedding and he was threatening anyone who came near him."

"You weren't there?" It came out more accusatory than he meant it.

Sam flushed. "It was when I came back after you fell asleep. Bobby was still in with Dean as far as I knew, and the cops wanted to talk to me. One of the nurses came out and grabbed me, and I got him calmed down."

"Where was Bobby?"

"Bathroom break," Sam said. John grimaced because he wanted to be angry with someone, but neither Sam nor Bobby seemed to be an option. "After that, I told them not to do anything with Dean unless we were there, and if was something we genuinely can't be present for, we need to be there when it's explained to him, and nearby while it's happening."

"Good, good," John said, nodding. Sam was handling this great. Maybe in a few days he could go out and start searching out the demon again. "So, he doesn't want to talk to Denson?"

"First he asked what the point was, and then I think he started considering what Azazel would do if they actually caught up to him." Sam shuddered. "From that point he was hysterical and the only thing to do was sedate him."

"I don't like it."

"Neither do I," Sam retorted defensively. "But he was going to hurt himself, and I couldn't calm him down. Bobby couldn't calm him down. There wasn't a lot of choice."

John nodded reluctantly. "Anything else I need to know?"

"Bobby and I are going to cut Dean's hair and help him shave when he's awake again," Sam said, shrugging.

"He'll appreciate that," John said. "Let's go."

The hair cutting was accompanied by much laughter and a few apologies for the inexpert job. Maureen came in, saw just how inexpert the job was and found one of her colleagues who had a little experience cutting her brother's hair. She neatened Dean's hair up nicely, and didn't seem to mind Dean's flirting. The shaving was a little easier. Dean objected to having Sam handle scissors that near his eyes, so Bobby cut the beard short and then they applied an electric razor to the stubble. When it was all done, John was almost sorry. Dean had looked tired and shrunken before, but without the beard, his gauntness could be seen vividly in his face.

Dean gazed around at all of them looking at him and said, "I know, I'm so gorgeous you're speechless."

"Yeah, Dean," Sam said, and the tone he used was painful to hear because he was so clearly humoring his brother. "Yeah, that's it."

"Look, I know he didn't cut on my face," Dean said.

"I can see that," John replied. "But you've lost a lot of weight, son, and it shows."

"Well, I was getting kind of sloppy, I guess," Dean said off-handedly. "But I'm not going to gain anything back if they won't let me have any pie."

That had been a bone of contention the night before when Sam and Bobby had arrived. He was still on a clear liquid diet, and cherry pie couldn't in any way be construed as a clear liquid.

"Yes, but you can have all the Jell-O you can eat," Sam said.

Dean shrugged a little, but he didn't respond. He seemed, in fact, to be drifting off again. The haircut had taken a fair amount of energy, John supposed, what with all the flirting. Sam looked away as his brother fell asleep, and John could see just how devastated his younger son was by the infirmity of his elder brother.

"Sam, Bobby, why don't you guys go out for a while?"

"I could use some sleep," Bobby said. "Sam?"

"I'm good," Sam said. "I want to stay with Dean."

"Sam –"

"You might have to leave him and go to the bathroom or something. He needs someone here all the time."

"The staff all know not to try to do anything while we're not here, right?" John asked. Sam nodded. John had seen him earlier double-checking with the morning crew that the instructions had been passed on. "And Dean spends most of his time sleeping, right?"

"Dad, I –"

"Sam, get out of here and get a little sun. I don't need both of you looking like vampires."

Sam paused in the middle of getting up and gave Bobby an odd look. Bobby glared at John for reasons John couldn't begin to understand, and then the two of them left the ICU. The next several days passed without much event. Dean spent increasing time asleep, and he developed a fever that had the doctors worried. They said upbeat things to him and Sam, and John could tell that Sam was trying hard to believe them, but Dean looked like the walking dead, except he wasn't walking.

The next time the FBI came by, John threw Bobby to them without a qualm. It got them off the subject of trying to talk to Dean and gave John some breathing room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The question has been asked - and I will do the asker the courtesy of assuming that she didn't intend to make me feel as old as the hills - but I thought it possible that if one person asked the question, there might be more that needed to but hadn't. So here it is. Jeff Bridges is a moderately famous actor. Not sure how to include a hyperlink, but here's the link: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000313/
> 
> He was Kevin Flynn in Tron, the first thing I know him from (dating myself a little there ;)) and he was Obadiah Stane in Iron Man. Happy reading!


	25. Chapter 25

Denson gazed at the bearded, cap-wearing individual John Winchester had sent out to talk to him. He had brown hair shot with a little gray, and he wore an expression familiar to Denson from long years of experience. Robert Singer didn't much trust law enforcement, thank you very much. On the other hand, Denson had already read the man's police file, so he knew some of why.

"So, Agent Denson, what can I do for you?" Singer asked brusquely.

"I understand that John Winchester sent his son Dean's car to you," Denson said. Singer nodded. "Can you tell me the circumstances of that?"

"Not sure what you're asking for," Singer replied. "John sent the car to me because I've got space to store it, and he knows I give a damn about Dean."

"How are you connected to the Winchester family?"

"Met John years ago, when he came to my yard with the boys, looking for parts. We got to be friends. The boys call me Uncle Bobby on account of they don't have anyone else to call that."

"So, you're close with the family?"

"Closest to Dean, these days," Singer replied. "John and me sort of drifted apart, and Sam went away to school, but Dean would turn up from time to time, help me out on a few projects, then move along."

"When was the last time you heard from him?" Denson asked.

"Middle of August, I guess. Maybe early August. He called to let me know he wasn't coming on Labor Day like we'd planned, but that was no big thing. He moves around a lot."

"You know where he was then?"

"No idea," Singer said. "He didn't say and I didn't ask."

"It didn't surprise you not to hear from him for four months?"

"Not really. It's a little unusual, but I'm not his keeper. I didn't call him either."

Denson nodded and glanced aside at Melissa to see if she had any thoughts. He wasn't sure he believed Singer, but he had no reason to disbelieve him. It wasn't so much that he thought the man was lying to him as he thought Singer wasn't being altogether frank. "So, lay out the timeline for me. John Winchester called you to let you know that the car was coming, and –"

"He didn't call me," Singer said, giving him an incredulous look.

"He . . ." Denson paused, staring. "So, what, the car just showed up?"

Singer snorted. "If you knew John Winchester, that wouldn't surprise you," he said. Denson exchanged another glance with Melissa and saw that she found that as disturbing as he did. "Look, I don't know what you hope to learn from me, honestly. John sent me the car, and I put it in my back lot. He and Sam showed up a day or so later, we discussed where to go looking for Dean, and –"

"They came to you in South Dakota?" Denson asked, startled. Neither father nor son had mentioned that, though both interviews had been truncated, he supposed. "Did they think you knew where Dean was?"

"I'd seen him more recently than either of them had," Singer said, shrugging. "And I think Sam wanted a look at the car."

"The car," Denson said. "Yes, I'll need your permission to send a tow truck into your yard to get that car to a crime lab for processing."

"Like hell," Singer replied, his eyes snapping. "That car's been through too many hands to be of any use to you, not to mention having been practically detailed before it was abandoned."

"Detailed by who?" Denson asked.

"Don't you mean 'whom'?" Singer shrugged. "I don't know, but I know that car. When it got to my yard, it was cleaner than I've ever seen it in twenty years, and there's no way in hell John stopped to vacuum the floors."

Denson could see that point. "Regardless, it's evidence –"

"I am not surrendering Dean's baby to you, and that's the way it is," Singer said. "It would kill that kid if he found out that car was in your hands for 'processing,' and don't think I don't know what that can mean. I've seen cars that have been processed by crime labs. Apart from his family, there isn't anything in the world more important to Dean than that car. I'm not letting you hand it over to a bunch of lab monkeys who'll only see it as a dissection project."

"I could subpoena it," Denson said.

"And I could fight you tooth and nail," Singer retorted. "In the courts and out. I'm telling you, it won't do you or your investigation any good, and it would do material harm to Dean's morale."

Denson shrugged. "So, what gave them the lead for Alabama?"

"They consulted a friend of mine, a psychic named Pamela Barnes," Singer said.

"A psychic?" Denson repeated incredulously.

"Yup, and she was right, so you can't fault her on that." Denson glanced at Melissa, who nodded. She stepped away to make a call. "Oh, and Agent Denson?" Denson turned back to Singer. "She has a constant flow of customers in and out of her place, and she's spent most of her weekends with me lately."

"So, does she work with the police?"

"Nope." Singer looked around and stood up. "Anything else?"

"Would you mind telling John Winchester that I'd like to speak with him or his younger son?"

"I'll tell him," Singer replied with an ironic twist to his lips. He walked off, muttering slightly. Denson heard some of it, mostly a litany of how useless and hopelessly late the police tended to be. He couldn't even altogether blame him. The boys in Nebraska had really dropped the ball, and they'd be lucky if the Winchesters didn't decide to sue them.

He sat down and started flipping through the file of photographs they'd finally gotten, keeping them close to his chest so as not to share them with the whole room. He stared at them, puzzled by some of what he was seeing. Something must have gone wrong in the processing because there were odd streaks and peculiar dots on the images, only they seemed to follow the contours of the victim's body. He'd have to have the lab check them again, but then he saw the note at the back of the file.

_Made three attempts to clear these images up, but the strange markings don't seem to be a problem with the film or the processing. We may need to test the victim's skin for residues of some kind of light-sensitive paint, though how any kind of paint could have survived two surgeries and who knows how many sponge baths is an open question._

A body dropped into the seat next to him as he flipped back to get another look at the photograph of the victim's abdomen. "What do you – son of a bitch!"

Denson clapped the file shut and turned to John Winchester. "I'm sorry, sir, you shouldn't have seen that."

"Well, I have, so don't bother hiding it," Winchester said.

Denson shook his head. "There's something wrong with the processing," he said.

The man's eyes narrowed, and Denson could sense an enormous amount of thought churning behind those dark eyes. He still wasn't sure what he really thought of John Winchester. On the face of it, he seemed to be an utterly devoted father, but so many of the things others said of him argued against that image. "I've already seen the injuries live and in person. What's the harm of me seeing photos of them?"

"I'm sorry," Denson said, and he saw Winchester's eyes go through anger, frustration and resignation while his face remained immobile. He was one you had to read closely. "I do have some questions," he said.

"Ask 'em," Winchester replied.

"Mr. Singer told us that you went to his place in South Dakota before you came down to Alabama."

Winchester's eyebrows went up. "Did he? Didn't I?" He blinked thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, I don't think I did. What of it?"

"What led you to Alabama?"

Winchester grimaced. "Obviously, Bobby's already told you," he said. "That explains the look," he added in a mutter. Shaking his head, he shrugged. "I consulted a psychic friend of his who seems to have a pretty good record. I had a bad feeling about all of this, and she guided us right."

"Did you know her before this?"

"Nope. Just heard Bobby talk about her."

Denson kept getting a feeling from all of these guys that they were leaving things out of their stories. It might be nothing, but it might be key to resolving the case. "What did she tell you?"

"She did something, she called it dowsing, that pointed to the area north of Birmingham, and then she touched Dean's car and described a finished house in an unfinished subdivision with an Alabama power truck parked nearby."

"Did you find the house?" Denson asked. Since they'd found both John and Sam's prints in the building, Denson wondered if he'd come clean.

Winchester nodded. "We did."

"Why didn't you contact the police after that?"

"Two reasons," Winchester said. "One, it would have taken a lot of time, because they would have wanted to ask us a bunch of questions, and we would have been tied down forever."

"And two?"

"Pamela told us he'd been moved to a brick building closer to Birmingham. We drove around for a while, looking for something that matched her description." Winchester met his gaze squarely. "The cops wouldn't have listened to a lead from a psychic, and they wouldn't have turned us loose to go looking ourselves, and God knows what else might have happened if we'd been delayed."

"Why didn't you tell us about it once you had him safe and in the hospital?"

"Honestly, I didn't think about it," Winchester said. "Dean's been pretty central to every thought for the last few days. He's still not in great shape."

Denson nodded. He'd been getting regular reports from the hospital. "So, all your leads came from this psychic? Why didn't you tell me that before?"

Winchester looked faintly embarrassed. "Would you want to tell an FBI agent that you and your Stanford-educated son had driven halfway across the country following leads from a psychic?"

Denson snorted. "I see. Now, has Dean mentioned anyone other than the man who looked like Jeff Bridges?"

Winchester blinked at him. "No, he hasn't. Have you seen signs that there was more than one person involved?"

Denson pursed his lips, then decided to be relatively frank. "There are aspects of the operation that clearly would have required at least two people, and it's not the sort of thing that your son could have been forced to do."

Winchester's eyes narrowed. "Operation?"

"Has Dean said anything about a box?" Winchester went pale, and Denson grimaced. "That's the sort of thing we need to know about. Anything Dean has said could be useful."

The man beside him remained silent for a moment, then he sighed. "Sam would know more. Dean's talked a bit more frankly to him that to me, but Sam's asleep right now."

Denson found that unsurprising. Sam rarely seemed to be available when the police officers were in the hospital. He'd spoken to John a few times, and now he'd spoken to 'Uncle Bobby,' but Sam never emerged from the ICU when they were known to be there. He wasn't sure why that was, or if it really was just coincidence. "Tell me what you know."

"He can't bear a number of words that the bastard evidently used frequently. Procedure and treatment send him hysterical. He doesn't cope very well with needles, and while scissors are okay, single blades are not." He looked at the file. "Can I please see those photos? Even just one of them?"

Denson gazed down at the manila folder and contemplated his options. After a moment, he opened the folder carefully and let Winchester see the first of the photos, showing the victim's back. It had the strange streaks and dots like all the others did. "I'm sorry, the lab seems to have had a problem processing these."

Winchester grunted and put his hand out, peering down. Denson wondered what he was looking at with such fascination. "Thanks." He rose. "Was there anything else?"

"Not at this time."

Winchester nodded and left. Denson sat back and contemplated his next move. First on the agenda would be arranging for a new set of pictures to be taken.

* * *

John knew that Denson probably suspected that he was keeping Sam away from the cops, and he wasn't far wrong. John would be just as glad if Sammy never talked to them again. He could lie, but he was less good at it when not playing a character. Dean could lie from sun up to sun down without the slightest effort, and though he might stretch plausibility a bit, he wouldn't show any discomfort unless he was caught outright. Sammy tended to look uneasy and slightly guilty when lying as Sam Winchester, so it was better he avoid the police.

Nevertheless, that wasn't the real reason John wasn't sending him out to the cops. The real reason was that Dean – when conscious and aware of his surroundings – would get tense if Sam wasn't in sight. The longer Sam was out of sight, the worse it got, till he started to panic. The last time, that had only taken a half hour. Sam couldn't make heads or tails of it, because Dean wasn't having that reaction to John or Bobby, but John hadn't explained to him how thoroughly Azazel had used threats against him to control his older brother.

Thoughts about going after Azazel soon had to be back-burnered. They still needed three warm bodies at least to help monitor and take care of Dean. Really, they needed more, but he wasn't taking any more hunters off the line, and nor was he bringing in anyone who couldn't overpower Dean with a minimum of damage to him.

When he reached the room, Sam and Dean were theoretically playing poker, but Dean had clearly drifted off in mid-game. His hand lay face down on the over bed table, and Sam was flipping through the other cards as if bored. When John got close enough to hear them, he heard Bobby say, "That's cheating." John saw why a second later when he reached them. Rather than aimlessly flipping through the unused cards as John had thought, Sam was building himself a royal flush.

"Yeah, and Dean makes fun of me when I don't do it," Sam replied. "And it's not like we're playing for money."

"What are you playing for, then?" John asked. He walked up to the head of the bed and touched Dean's forehead, then his cheek, checking for fever. It had been down all day, but no one was sure how long it would stay that way. The day before had been a never-ending round of hallucination that had remained benign only so long as Sam was there.

Sam shrugged uncomfortably. "Okay, we're technically playing for money, but it's not real money. Neither one of us has half a million, which is what we decided to start out with."

John raised his eyebrows. "Half a million? How'd you come up with that figure?"

"I don't know. We used to do it all the time when we were kids. We'd agree on a mythical total, split it, and then we'd play back and forth, working on our tells and stuff. I think it was mostly to keep us occupied since Dean didn't do homework and I always finished mine pretty quick." The royal flush complete, Sam shuffled the remainder of the deck and put it on the table, his hand face down in front of him.

John hadn't really thought about what they might be playing for, but it was heartening to know that they'd resurrected an old tradition between them. Sam rose and stretched. "What did he want?"

"He had questions about that psychic we consulted," John said, giving Bobby a mock-glower. "Perfectly delivered, thanks."

"Hey, I didn't know you hadn't told them you'd been up to see me," Bobby growled defensively.

"I'm serious," John said. "Now it looks like I just didn't want anyone to know I'd consulted a psychic."

Bobby's brows drew together. "And you couldn't have just told – right, I keep forgetting. You don't tell people anything."

John scrutinized Sammy's face. He was looking careworn and tired. "When was the last time you left the hospital, Sammy?"

Sam blinked at him. Youth had kept him going longer than John would have expected. Both Bobby and John had cycled back and forth between the hospital and the motel room through the last several days, but Sammy hadn't really left. "I can't leave, Dad," Sammy said. "Dean freaks out, you know that."

"You have to get some air, boy," Bobby replied, and John saw Sam give him a harried look.

"I went to the cafeteria yesterday and had lunch, and they wound up having to sedate him. I'm not going anywhere."

"That can't go on," John said, staring down at his sleeping son.

"Well, now's not the time to push it," Sam said. "I've got the recliner, I'm good."

"You haven't eaten since this morning," Bobby put in.

Sam shrugged. "I could use a salad with some chicken."

"I'll grab you something," Bobby replied. "John, you need anything?"

"Just a sandwich, whatever," he said.

"Bacon double cheeseburger with extra onions," said the limp figure in the bed. John looked down at his son in some alarm, worried that he'd heard more than they'd want him to.

"When that starts coming in clear liquid form, you got it," Bobby retorted, giving Dean's foot a squeeze.

"Not fair. Sammy can eat whatever he wants and he wastes it on rabbit food."

"Chicken isn't rabbit food."

"No, but it's girl food."

"Boys," John said warningly, and they both looked up at him, Dean with a weary grin that harkened back to long ago days and Sam with an uncomfortable mix of anxiety, nostalgia and fury. At least John knew that little of the fury was directed at him at the moment.

"So, Sammy, you ready to get your ass whupped?" Dean asked, scooping up his cards.

"Sure," Sam said, picking his up. John watched the ensuing scene with his emotions as muddled as Sam's. It was undeniably good to see his boys together, engaged with each other and not fighting, but the atmosphere remained strained. There was a fair amount of playacting on both sides as they played poker and joked about each other's tells and cheating strategies. Sam was trying to stay positive, to keep Dean's mood up, and Dean was doing the same thing for Sam. Meanwhile, both of them were suffering on so many fronts. Conversations stayed light as air because no one wanted to upset Dean while his health was still so fragile, and Dean was in full avoidance mode anyway. John wasn't even sure if either of them was aware of just how hard the other was working to keep things relaxed.

Castiel appeared beside John. "They cannot hear us," he said, nodding towards the boys, and John turned towards the . . . he'd had to accept it, weird as it was. The angel. "If you think Sam needs time away, perhaps I could find some way of making Dean comfortable with that."

"What, you mean if you went with him or something?" John asked.

"It is one possibility," Castiel said.

"With you needing to bolt any time another angel appears, I'm not sure how well that would work," John replied. "What other possibility do you see?"

"I could ensure that Dean remained asleep the entire time that Sam was gone," Castiel said. "Again, that may be problematic if another angel shows up, but Dean will not automatically awake if I go, it will only become possible again. He sleeps very deeply these days."

"I noticed," John said. "I'll give it some thought."


	26. Chapter 26

Dean watched Sam play and wondered if he'd made any cash off his college friends this way. Dean could see right through him, but most people wouldn't be able to. On the other hand, Sammy . . . probably not. Scamming off his friends in college probably wouldn't have seemed 'normal' enough to him, even though from what Dean could see, it was as normal as it got. No telling how many college parties he'd crashed, and at more than one of them, poker had been played at cutthroat levels you didn't always see in biker bars.

"So, when are you going back?" Dean asked. He felt an internal shudder at the thought, but it was inevitable. Sammy would go back to his pursuit of normalcy, Dean would . . . God knew what Dean would do. The cards in his hand. He needed to focus on the cards in his hand.

"To the motel?" Sam asked, glancing up briefly from his hand.

Dean gave him a sour look. "No, sasquatch, back to Stanford."

Sam's eyes widened, and he looked up. "Um . . . never," he said. "Like I could live there again after . . ."

The name wasn't spoken between them, but it might as well have been. Jessica. The pretty little girlfriend Dean had looked forward to as a sister-in-law. "Well, then Harvard or Oxford or wherever."

"Oxford is in England, Dean," Sam pointed out.

The very thought of Sam being that far away gave Dean a tremor that made him drop some of his cards. He scooped them up while Sam and Dad politely pretended not to notice. What kind of an idiotic wuss had he become? The minute his baby brother walked out of sight, he turned into a basket case. It was stupid. He cleared his throat once he had his cards neatly stacked and held against his chest so that the continued trembling wouldn't be noticeable. "Whatever, when are you going back to school?"

"Not in the foreseeable future," Sam said. "Dean, I'm not going anywhere, not without you."

"That should be fun," Dean remarked. "We'll look like a pair of chicks in restaurants, both of us going to the bathroom at the same time."

"Okay, maybe not to that extent," Sam said. "I'll see you and raise you ten."

Dean nodded and tossed his chips into the pot while he tried to hide his reaction to Sam's retrenching. He didn't want to go to the bathroom with his brother. It was nutty and stupid and sissy. But he still got nervous having Sam out of the room that long, at least when he was conscious, he did. He didn't know what went on when he went to sleep or got weird. That thought would have been enough to keep him from sleeping if that was possible in his current condition.

"What day is it?" he asked.

"Friday," Sam replied.

"So, I didn't sleep 'round the clock again?" Dean was pleased to know that. "I'm getting tired of being Rip VanWinchester."

"No, you only slept about thirty minutes," Sam said. "And you didn't move or mutter this time."

"Oh, good," Dean said. He wished Sam would stop telling him that. He didn't want to know when he didn't, because that meant he also knew when he did. "Well, Francis, you going to show me your cards or what?"

Sam considered silently for several moments. "So, have you ever seen Stargate?" Dean asked.

"The movie?" Sam shrugged. "Sure. We saw it together."

"No, I meant the TV series."

"No," Sam said, giving him an odd look.

Dean rolled his eyes. He'd almost forgotten. Sammy had really embraced 'normalcy,' to the point of rejecting science fiction because it wasn't mainstream. "I thought it was really funny that the big brain science geek on that show was named Sam," he said. "It seemed to fit in so many ways."

"Thanks," Sam said, his brows knitting.

Dean grinned. "The girl thing, too."

"What girl thing?"

"The Sam on Stargate was Samantha," Bobby said dryly, walking into the room.

Dean laughed at Sam's expression. "Seriously, you guys have so much in common. Her hair's about the same length as yours, she kicks ass at pool, eats all healthy, but she can fight and shoot and is always explaining things. Maybe it's something about the name."

"She's fictional, Dean," Sam said.

"Fiction is derived from fact, Sammy."

"Sam," his brother corrected.

Dean looked at him innocently. "But when I say Sam, I get this picture of a cute blond chick wearing fatigues with a nice rack."

"She didn't go by Sammy?" Sam asked.

"Now that's an image," Dean said. Turning to Bobby, he added, "Can't you just see her reaction if Jack tried calling her that?"

"There would be blood," Bobby replied. "Here, Sam, your salad."

"If I hadn't bathed the kid, I'd suspect he was hiding something," Dean said. Sam put his cards on the table and accepted the salad from Bobby. "And your tell hasn't changed in twenty years, Sammy. Where's my crossword puzzle book?"

"Dean, I answer all the clues."

"Not all of them," Dean protested. "I got the clue 'Bo is a ten,' and you didn't."

"Okay, you get all the model clues, and some of the TV ones, but I get most of them."

"It's still my book," Dean said. Dad handed it to him. "Why are you all here, anyway? Don't you usually take your Dean-sitting in shifts?" He looked suspiciously at each of them. "Am I dying?" he asked, knitting his brows. "Is that why you're all gathered like this?"

Sam's eyes widened. "No, of course not!" he exclaimed, leaning closer. "Of course you're not dying!"

Dean stared at his brother, who continued to babble in a thoroughly unconvincing way, words stumbling over each other. "Oh my God," he said in sudden realization. "I am dying." He looked up at his father. The stunned look on John's face wasn't exactly reassuring.

"You are not dying, you idjit," Bobby growled. "All of you, stop acting like idjits!"

Dean looked at his brother and his father, then shrugged very slightly. "It's what we do," he said with a grin.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Right, well, I'm going to go back to the motel and get some sleep."

"Hey, Bobby!" Dean called as the older hunter reached the doorway. Bobby paused and looked back. "Bring a babe back with you when you come."

"Any particular variety?" Bobby asked with an amused twist to his lips.

Dean shrugged. "Someone prepared to be gentle with a sick man."

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed, but then he snorted. "I guess you must be feeling better."

Bobby left and Dean blinked at the ceiling. "I guess I am," he said, rather startled by this information. He actually had the energy to contemplate what he'd do with a babe if he got one. "Let's see." He looked down at the crossword puzzle. "Twenty-two across, man-made object visible from space." He grinned up at Sam. "You got an answer for me, college boy?" He waited expectantly, pencil poised.

* * *

It took nearly three weeks for the doctors to move Dean out of intensive care. Sam would have expected to be calmer about his brother's health after the move, but the room he was given wasn't precisely a standard hospital room. For one thing, it was solo, and slightly larger than normal for a single room. There were also signs outside warning visitors to wash their hands thoroughly before entering. A sink right outside the room was ready with soap and warm water, and there were instructions for proper hand-washing posted above it. Sam had known his brother was at risk for infection given the way his wounds kept reopening, but seeing these extreme precautions brought it home to him with a vengeance.

Sam still spent much of his time in Dean's room, because Dean continued to get panicky if Sam was away for any length of time. At Dean's insistence, though, he started spending longer times away from his brother. It did make it easier to research ways to find and stop Azazel. Anytime Dean got the slightest impression that Sam was looking into that, he freaked out, so Sam found other things to do while he sat in with his brother and saved his research for the times when he was forced by his father and Bobby to go back to the motel room for sleep. He got the impression that Castiel kept Dean asleep for much of that time he was gone to help avoid emotional upset.

As Dean's condition improved, the doctors started discussing the options they had for caring for Dean after he was released, because he was going to have a long convalescence. Dad didn't really want to talk about it when they first brought it up, so Sam gave it some thought. He could come up with precisely two choices. They could put Dean into some sort of skilled nursing facility, or they could settle him somewhere and take care of him themselves. He knew who the brunt of that would fall on, so he approached Dr. Markell himself. Though the doctor seemed not to be in favor of skipping the nursing home, he had directed Sam to Margaret Reiner, the nurse in charge of education and home care. Without mentioning it to anyone, he started taking what amounted to classes in volunteer nursing. He figured both Dean and Dad would flip out over the notion that Dean was going to need so much ongoing care, and it was easier to just tell his father, who was always with Dean when Sam wasn't, that he was taking some time away without specifying what he was up to. He thought Bobby probably suspected, but he knew Bobby would understand his reasons.

If the precautions around Dean's hospital room hadn't alarmed him to start with, the level of care Dean would need after his release would have. Daily checkups on the state of his wounds, more often if he got dirty or if bleeding started. Carefully planned diets were produced and gone over until Sam had them practically committed to memory. And all that was without considering the need to learn the proper ways to help Dean get up and down, what to do if he fell, and the possible repercussions of any number of ordinary illnesses. Coughing too much or too hard could jolt his internal injuries to the point of damage. Any stomach bug could cause him serious problems. The list seemed endless.

Then came the day he had to work directly with Dean on the ways to get him up and down, because it wouldn't do any good for Sam to know what to do if Dean didn't know what to expect.

When Sam showed up with the therapist, Dean laughed at them. "You want to practice getting up and stuff? I already know how to do that." He rolled his eyes. "I taught you, Sammy, if you'll remember."

"It will be different with your injuries," George said. "Haven't you been having trouble sitting up without the bed's help?"

Dean's expression went guarded. Sam knew how much trouble he'd been having and how nuts it was driving him, but he didn't know if his brother would admit it to a stranger. "Fine, let's get to work, then."

There was a fair amount of work involved in just getting Dean up and walking again. He'd been in a bed for weeks now, rarely leaving it, and then only for 'procedures' that the nurses had taken to calling 'tasks.' Very little of that involved walking. Oddly, though, Dean refused to do any of his therapy in front of Dad. Sam wasn't sure why, but he thought it might have something to do with not appearing weak. Like lying in bed looked somehow less weak than attempting to cross the room unaided.

Even though Dean made amazing progress over the next few weeks, when Dad came and told him that Dr. Markell was ready to release Dean in the next couple of days, Sam gave him a worried look. "What will we do with him?" he asked. It was an odd moment for them when Bobby was alone with Dean.

"We'll drive him to Bobby's place in South Dakota," John said.

Sam shook his head. "I don't know, Dad, are you sure he's ready? It's a hell of a long drive for a convalescent."

"The doctors are talking about releasing him to a nursing home," John said, and Sam's eyes widened. "Those places have no security and they generally don't allow overnight visitors. It's not happening."

The very idea made Sam shudder. "Of course not. We can't stick Dean in a place like that. He'd go crazy."

His father glowered at him. "And we're not leaving him alone."

"No, I know." Sam shook his head at the very thought. Not only was he not safe alone, but Dean would be sure to do something insanely stupid.

"And I'll feel a lot better when he's someplace with a few more protections."

Sam grimaced and nodded. "Maybe we could fly him there," he suggested.

"Alone?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. "We've got vehicles here to worry about, Sammy." _With arsenals that can't be found or left behind_ went unsaid.

"One of us could go with him, the other two could bring the cars," Sam said. "I just don't think he's up to being driven that far, and if we have to stop for a day for every few hours we drive, it's going to take us weeks to get there."

"We'll have to talk it over with Bobby," John replied. "But I don't like the idea of him being alone with just one of us for the length of time it could take to drive up."

"When are they talking about releasing him?" Sam asked, but before his father could answer, Louise brought Dean back into the room.

"So, you still haven't answered my question," Dean said. "Will you run away with me?"

Louise brought the chair to a stop and walked around in front of Dean. "I don't know," she said. "Let's get you up."

"What do I have to do to convince you?" Dean asked as she helped him back into bed. "We can ditch my babysitters, you know."

She drew the covers up over him and then paused thoughtfully. "Can I bring my dog?" she asked.

"Your dog?" Dean blinked at her and Sam stifled a chuckle. Women didn't usually play along with his brother quite that far, at least not in Sam's experience.

"Yup. You don't get me without my dog. No Veronica is a deal breaker."

"Veronica, huh?" Dean said. "What kind of dog is she?"

"Poodle."

Sam couldn't help himself, he snorted. John smacked him lightly on the shoulder in reproof, but when Sam turned to look at him, he saw that his father was smiling slightly.

"Poodle?" Dean repeated, shaking his head. "Seriously, Louise, a poodle?"

Louise shrugged. "It's not like she's not a toy poodle, Dean, she's a standard."

"Still, a poodle." Dean sighed. "We're doomed. It will never work."

Louise laughed. "Oh well, maybe Veronica can change your mind," she said. She glanced over at Sam and their dad, and grinned. "I'll have to see if we can introduce you at some point."

"Well, her name is in her favor," Dean said with a smile. "I always liked Veronica." He shrugged and his eyes twinkled impishly. "And Betty."

"You, young man, are a scoundrel." Louise chucked him under the chin and left the room.

"So, what's this I'm hearing about a nursing home?" Dean asked, fixing Dad with a narrow look. "You put me in a place like that, and I'll check myself out as soon as I can walk farther than four feet."

"You really think I'd put you in a nursing home, Dean?" John asked.

"You've ditched me before," Dean said bitterly, and Sam bit his lip, giving his father a covert glare. Before John could reply, though, Dean leaned his head back on the pillows and sighed. "But I don't know what the hell else you can do with me," he replied. "I'm a wreck. Maybe I should just do it." He stared up at the ceiling, his face blank but his eyes full of misery. "Just go live in some kind of home."

"Don't talk like that," Sam growled, rising and crossing to the bedside. "We're not leaving you behind, Dean. You're going to be fine."

Dean glowered up at him. "Well, it's not like you can come live in a nursing home with me, Sammy," he said. "Though I suppose you could always get some training and get a job there."

"We're not putting you in a home, Dean," Sam retorted. "It's not happening."

"Then what do you plan to do?" Dr. Markell asked, walking into the room. "Pardon me for interrupting, but Dean is going to need round the clock care. How are you going to provide that?"

"Within the family," Dad said.

"Yeah," Sam said. He glanced over at his father, then down at Dean. "I've been working with Margaret Reiner since we talked, so I've got the preparation you wanted."

Markell raised his eyebrows. "That's good to hear, I hadn't heard from Margaret."

"You've been preparing for this?" Dad asked, his eyes widening.

"I knew I'd be the primary caregiver," Sam said, shrugging.

"Caregiver?" Dean repeated. "I always knew you were a girl." Sam rolled his eyes but didn't bother to respond.

"Well, we were considering releasing him as early as tomorrow, so maybe you'd better come with me. There are some last minute instructions you'll need."

"Hello, in the room here," Dean announced acerbically. "And I can take care of myself."

Dr. Markell raised his eyebrows at Dean. "You can make sure the stitches on your back stay clean and infection free?" he asked frankly. He'd quickly learned that Dean didn't take well to being jollied along and could be blind to hints. Blunt words were required to get through most of the time, even if that did occasionally seem a little brutal. Dean flushed and looked away. Markell turned to Dad. "Are you going to be staying in the area?" he asked.

"No," Dad said.

Markell nodded. "Well, you'll need to arrange for a visiting nurse, wherever you're going. I can give you an order for one before you go so that there aren't any insurance problems." Sam kept his face neutral, but that was going to become an issue sooner or later. They were going to have to pay for all this care, and he somehow doubted that credit card fraud alone would cover it. Not without becoming overwhelmingly obvious. He glanced at Dean and saw that his brother had similar thoughts going through his mind.

"Thank you, doctor," John said. "That will make things easier." He glanced over at Dean and Sam. "Why don't you go get these instructions, Sammy?"

"Sure, Dad," Sam said. He glanced over at Dean. His brother was growing a little more able to cope with Sam being gone for a while, but he was usually happier if he knew Sam was with either Dad or Bobby. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Call me if you . . . need to," he said, not wanting to get more specific. Dean was embarrassed enough.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I think I can stand having you gone for a while, Sammy," he said sarcastically, though everyone present – including Dr. Markell – knew what a hollow statement that was. The mild desperation lurking in his eyes was clue enough, but no one called him on the falsehood. Sam grinned at him, playing along, and followed Dr. Markell out of the room.

"I'm glad to see that you're weaning him of his dependence on you," the doctor said. "It's not healthy, but I'm sure the process can't be easy on any of you."

Sam shook his head. "It's not, but he hates it. I mean, it helps that he wants to make it stop, too."

Dr. Markell nodded and took Sam to his office where they quickly got down to brass tacks.


	27. Chapter 27

Denson walked down the hall towards the room Dean Winchester occupied now that he'd left ICU. It was a single since the man still tended to have nightmares that would alarm any roommate, but, somehow, Denson never seemed to manage to catch him both awake and coherent. Thus far, he'd never actually seen the man. The one time he got close, Dean had gone hysterical at the thought of talking to him. Since then, both the family and medical staff had stonewalled him. Furthermore, he could swear that the elder Winchester was keeping his other son out of the way. He'd only caught Sam twice since that first time, and John Winchester had interrupted them both times with the news that Dean needed his brother urgently. Winchester protected his boys with unswerving devotion. Denson snorted internally. Despite the fact that Sam and Dean were both in their twenties, he continued to think of them as kids and their father and Bobby Singer as the 'adults.'

As he approached the room, he heard Winchester senior and Singer's voices. ". . . never thought of that," Winchester was saying.

"It's only logical, John. Dean can lay on his back all the way to South Dakota if he wants to. I made sure to get one with solid shocks to keep from bouncing him around too much."

"But I've never driven an RV before, and I can't leave the truck," Winchester said. Denson paused outside the room, listening. That sounded somewhat alarming, like they were going to take Dean away before Denson ever got a chance to interview him.

"I figured I'd drive, Sam could stay in the back with Dean, and I'd leave the car behind. I already arranged with the RV rental place to hold the car for me. Then, when we get there, I hand the keys over to Tiffany, she drives the RV back and picks up my car."

"What about your stuff?" asked a husky voice Denson had never heard before. The man sounded tired and sort of strained.

"I move it into the RV," Singer said. "We may need it, for one thing. And I'm not quite as nutty as your dad when it comes to situating things."

"Very funny, Bobby," Winchester said. "Does that sound all right to you, Dean?"

"What difference does it make what I think?" Dean asked, sounding faintly petulant. "You'll arrange things however you want. You always do."

"Dean, I –"

At that moment, Singer started out of the room, no doubt trying to avoid being part of what was clearly a family fight of long standing. He saw Denson standing there and gave him a sour look. Glancing back into the room, he said, "John, we have company."

Winchester broke off and came to the door. "Agent Denson," he said. "I'm not sure –"

"Bring him in, Dad," said the tired voice from inside. "Let's just get it over with before the guy explodes."

Denson raised his eyebrows. John Winchester pursed his lips and gave Denson a warning look that he had no trouble decoding. If Denson upset Dean, he'd answer to Dean's father, but Denson couldn't allow that to interfere with his investigation. Winchester backed out of the way with poor grace, and Singer stepped aside just long enough for the FBI agent to get inside, then followed him in. Evidently they weren't prepared to leave him alone with the kid.

When he got a look at Dean, he could see why. He'd seen photos, both from the family and from police files, and he wouldn't have recognized him. The boy was pale, and there were recent lines around his eyes and mouth that made him look older than his twenty-six years. Haunted green eyes gazed up at him wearily from under a brow furrowed with remembered and current pain, but the boy gave him a welcoming smile. "Hey. My dad says you're persistent."

Denson found himself smiling back reflexively and recognized the impact of intense charisma and a strong personality. Both his brother and his father had similar presence, but Dean's came across differently. Oddly, despite what he'd been through, he seemed lighter and more open. "I'm glad to finally meet you. My name is Special Agent Calvin Denson, working out of the Birmingham field office. I'm the agent in charge of your case."

"Wow, I get my own agent?" Dean said. "I didn't know I was so special." His eyes turned aside for a moment, and Denson perceived the change in his attention as an almost palpable force. "Dad, why don't you go find Sam and listen in on whatever that Margaret chick is telling him. You'll need to know that stuff, too." Something seemed to pass between them, and then John Winchester left the room. "Have a seat, Agent Denson," Dean said, turning his full attention back. Denson sat down and contemplated the young man in front of him. Before he spoke, Dean looked around. "Where's your partner?"

"Following another lead," Denson said.

"Oh, I heard she was pretty," Dean replied, sighing as if disappointed. He looked down at his hands which were resting on his midsection and took a deep breath, and in that moment, Denson got the clear impression that all of what he'd seen thus far was a carefully constructed façade designed to put people at ease and avoid revealing too much. The boy's eyes came up, and his face seemed calm, but now Denson could tell that it was a mask. "So, you want to know every little thing that happened, I'm guessing."

"Anything you can tell me would be helpful," Denson said.

Dean gave him a whimsical look. "Light beer doesn't actually save you any calories because you just wind up drinking more of it; besides, it's un-American."

Denson stared at him for a long moment, blinking. "Thanks," he said blankly.

"Sorry," Dean said, his face falling. "Just . . . what do you want to know?"

Denson cleared his throat. "It's fine, Mr. Winchester, why don't –"

"Dean," the kid said. "Mr. Winchester is my dad."

"Dean, then," Denson replied. "Why don't you start at the beginning? What's the last thing that happened before the abduction?"

"Abduction?" Dean repeated. "That makes it sound like I was grabbed by aliens," he said with a dry snort. "I wish. An anal probe or two might at least have been fun." Singer made what looked like an involuntary movement, drawing Denson's attention. He glanced up and saw that the man had clenched his fists and closed his eyes. Dean didn't notice, he just gazed up at the ceiling with a faraway look on his face. "Last thing before . . . that would be a leggy redhead." A smile curved his lips, and this one seemed unfeigned. "A real redhead," he added, and Denson noted the implication. "Stayed most of the night with her, left around five in the morning and went to pack up my gear at the motel. Got everything into the car and drove down to a diner, don't remember the name, but it was Sunday, so it was busy as heck. Couple of local churches must have really early services." Denson let the kid ramble, figuring that it might be easier for him to get to the point by a circuitous route after all that had happened. "I had to park around behind the place. I locked up, went inside, and had the last good meal I've had in months."

Denson nodded, then waited for a few seconds, but Dean didn't speak further. He glanced over at Singer, but the man didn't seem any more disturbed than he had before. He cleared his throat. "Then what?"

"Then?" Dean closed his eyes. "Then I went out to the car. Did my usual checks for things under and around, got in and . . ." He shook his head. "I don't remember anything . . ." He stopped and sat up on his elbows, looking over at Singer. "Bobby, where's my baby?"

Singer sat forward urgently. "I told you, Dean, she's in the lot, under a tarp, safe as safe can be," he said, and his expression was puzzling to Denson. The salvage operator had already assured him that the kid loved that car beyond all things, yet Singer seemed both surprised and relieved that Dean was asking about it. Denson made a note to ask Singer about it later.

"You're sure?" Singer nodded. "Is she okay? How's she running?"

"Engine sounds fine," Singer said reassuringly. "And I've never seen her so clean."

Dean closed his eyes, relieved. "So I'll see her when we get to South Dakota," he murmured.

"That you will," Singer said, patting Dean on the shoulder. "You okay, boy?"

Dean's eyes opened. "Yeah, I just can't believe . . . she's okay?"

"Clean as a whistle inside and out, like she'd been detailed. Don't worry, Dean."

Dean seemed to remember Denson at that moment, and he gave him a sheepish grin. Mask back up and firmly in place. "Sorry, that car means the world to me."

"I can see that," Denson said.

"So, after the car . . . I . . ." He took a deep breath and spoke in a voice so flat it was almost a monotone. "I woke up in a box about the size of a coffin, but with foam stuff inside to make it so I couldn't really move." Recalling the burned out shell of that box, Denson hoped his own reaction to this intelligence didn't show. "No idea how long I was in there that time. Actually, any time." The kid's expression had gone completely, alarmingly blank. Denson had seen that before on other torture victims. "I . . . describing everything that happened could take hours, and most of it's pretty obvious from . . . I mean, you have photos."

The second set of photos had been taken while Dean was conscious but too dopey to question. Denson wasn't going to mention the oddities that had come out of that photo shoot. The photographer had brought two cameras, his personal digital model and the film camera that was standard issue. He had duplicated every shot with both cameras, and every old school photograph had developed with the same strange streaks and dots, but none of the digital shots had shown any sign of them. Discussion of possible reasons ran rampant among the forensic staff, but they seemed to have ruled out technical difficulties.

The digital photos had been entered into the file, and the film photos had been filed away among the technical oddities for future study. Denson had firmly ruled out further photographic sessions to test theories. The kid had enough on his plate without becoming some kind of photographic test subject.

"Can you give me a general overview of the chain of events?" Denson asked.

Dean visibly blanched at the word chain, and Denson grimaced internally but maintained a stolid expression. Any attempt to apologize or retract the word choice would merely draw attention to Dean's reaction and make things worse.

It took Dean several minutes to pull words together, and his voice was flatter than before as he spoke. "The box was for transport," he said. "I don't know where we were at any point, but he moved me four times."

Of course he would remember how many times he'd been trapped inside that tiny space. "Did you ever see anyone besides the guy who looked like Jeff Bridges?"

Dean blinked at him for a moment. "I never saw anyone but the one guy till that last day, when Sam and Dad came."

"Did he tell you his name?" Denson asked. Somehow he doubted Dean knew the man by his real name, but a even false name could lead them useful places.

"He called himself Azazel," Dean said, and he shuddered. Denson wrote that down with an internal whistle. Creepy bastard, using a demonic name. "He thought he was a witch or demon, I think," Dean added. "He kept . . . chanting things . . . and all the stuff on me." He gestured at his torso. "It was supposed to be spells or something."

"Did he tell you why?" Denson asked.

Dean's eyes closed again. "No." The word was stark and undoubtable.

"Can you tell me anything about the places you were held?"

The muscles along the kid's jaw tensed and relaxed. "The first place was like a high school gymnasium," he said. "Only abandoned and crappy. Smelled like damp rot and mildew." He shivered. "It was freezing, but it was always freezing. I was . . . we only used one room there, plus the bathroom when he actually let me out to go." Denson wondered what images were painted on the eyelids Dean was staring at. He probably didn't want to know. "Then it was some kind of abandoned office complex. I had my own room there, just me, my mattress, the cage and the . . ." He paused, then took a deep breath, still without opening his eyes. "The box," he added, his voice wobbling a bit.

Denson had seen the remnants of the cage, so he knew what Dean meant, but Singer's face was a study in dismay. Evidently he hadn't heard this stuff before, or at least not directly from Dean.

"After that, it was a warehouse, kind of small for a warehouse, and empty. Then a house, I think. It wasn't all the way finished. I had a separate room there, too. The walls were open studs, the floor was concrete, but it was too small to be a garage or anything like that. And then it was the place where Sam and Dad found me. I'm not even sure what that was, but it was different. Rushed. He didn't bother to paint the walls black. He said it was temporary."

"So, the walls were always painted black otherwise?" Denson asked.

"Black with those red glyphs on them," Dean replied. "But just in the . . ." His whole body shuddered, and his voice was tremulous when he went on. "In the room with the table. The separate rooms I had, he didn't do anything to."

"Did he ever ask you to do anything?"

Dean's eyes opened and he stared at Denson with a wary expression. "Do what? He wanted me to participate in his nutty rituals, and it wasn't like I had much choice. I was chained or caged all the time, I was naked all the time, and I got food whenever he felt like it." He shook his head. "I didn't see sunlight the whole time I was with him. If there were windows, he painted them out, and I never left the rooms he . . . put me in. There was wherever I slept, wherever the table was, and a bathroom. Sometimes there was just a bucket."

Denson hated to ask the next question, but he had to. The doctors had said that there was no physical evidence, and that the patient was non-responsive when they asked, so now it was his turn to put the question. "Did he subject you to any kind of sexual abuse?"

The kid's eyes went dark and distant, and then he actually laughed. Singer looked as alarmed by this reaction as Denson felt. Still laughing a little, Dean said, "And here I was thinking it couldn't have been worse. That'll teach me to underestimate the world." He shook his head. "No, man, he never touched me like that. He smacked me around a little when I got . . ." He swallowed, all the humor gone from his face. "When I fought back or tried to get away, but mostly he just cut, and he never . . . that wasn't angry, you know? That was all about his job, whatever the fuck that was supposed to be."

"Did he ever say anything that gave you a hint as to where he might go next?"

Dean shook his head. "No, he didn't really talk except to give me instructions or make threats." Denson nodded and bent to take notes. When he lifted his head, he discovered that Dean's eyes were focused hard on him. "Dude, you do not want to get near this guy. He's a scary mother fucker, and you and your buddies are no match for him."

Denson was familiar with this reaction. He nodded. "We'll be careful."

"Careful?" Dean repeated. He looked over at Singer. "Did you hear that, they'll be careful."

"Dean . . ." Singer said softly, leaning forward and putting his hand on Dean's arm.

"Like careful won't get them just as dead as reckless would."

"Does he carry any weapons that we should know about?" Denson asked.

Dean's eyes went wide and utterly blank. "Where's Sammy?" he asked abruptly. He reached out and gripped Singer's arm in what had to be a painfully tight hold. "Bobby, where'd Sammy go?"

"He's with your father, Dean," Singer said reassuringly, his tone and expression belied by the urgent hand digging in his pocket.

"Are you sure? Call them. Call them!" Evidently this was a frequent occurrence, because Singer had dialed even before Dean had made his demand. They could all hear the ringing just outside in the hall. "Sammy!" Dean called.

The younger son came darting into the room, his face anxious. "Dean, it's okay, I'm here."

Dean closed his eyes and began to shake. Sam sat down on the side of the bed and shot a glare at Denson before bending over his brother to murmur calm and soothing words.

Clearly, the interview was over. Just as clearly, he wasn't going to be able to segue into an interview with Sam. Denson rose and nodded to Singer. John Winchester was waiting in the doorway, his eyes dark with anger. Denson paused, not sure the man was going to get out of the way. Singer glanced over and saw Winchester's mood and rolled his eyes. "Come on," he muttered to Denson, and led the way out of the room.

Winchester stalked ten feet down the hall to a waiting room and turned to face Denson. "What the hell did you do?" he demanded, his voice all the more menacing for its throttled quality.

"He didn't do nothing wrong, John," Bobby said. "You know how –"

"What did you ask him?" John demanded.

"Before he grew anxious?" Denson said. "I asked him what weapons his captor carries."

"And he started asking for Sam immediately," Bobby interjected. "You guys were here before he had a chance to really lose it."

"He seemed calm enough to that point," Denson remarked, nodding. "Masked, but calm."

"Masked?" Winchester repeated. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Singer tried to answer for him, but Denson spoke over the top. "That he was keeping his feelings under wraps, which is –"

"What did you expect?" Winchester growled. "That he'd be hunky dory less than two months after being rescued? That spending two months with that bastard wouldn't have a lasting impact?"

"Mr. Winchester, I –"

"John, calm –"

Winchester brushed Singer's attempts at placation off and launched another attack against Denson over the top of his words. "You idiots in law enforcement stood around with your thumbs up your butts for weeks while my boy was tortured, and now you want him to bare his soul to you, tell you everything that happened, and you want him to be calm while doing it?" That bore no resemblance to anything Denson had said, but it didn't matter. Winchester shook with fury, his hands fisted and his eyes blazing. "We're leaving for South Dakota tomorrow," he announced truculently. "If you want any more interviews, you'll have to come there." He stalked away towards the hospital room, and Denson sighed. Singer gazed at him anxiously, as if expecting some kind of blow up.

"Don't worry, Mr. Singer. I've seen worse," Denson said. "Better me than one of the nurses, eh?"

Singer let out a relieved breath, but shook his head. "John wouldn't do that with a woman."

Denson snorted. He actually believed that, and it raised his respect for Winchester a little. "Well, then, better me than you," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"That I can get behind," Singer said. "I've actually been waiting for that explosion, and getting worried because it hadn't happened yet." He turned away, but when Denson cleared his throat, he stopped. "Yeah?"

"Why did you look so surprised when Dean asked about his car? I thought you said he loved it practically more than life itself."

"I wasn't surprised," Singer replied. "I was relieved. That was the first time he's asked. It's a sign he's getting back to himself. In fact, I need to go let John know."

It was an unsubtle request not to be delayed any longer, and Denson nodded. He walked back out to his car contemplating the information he'd gained. They'd already found the house and the office complex. Actually, the office complex had been found before Dean had, a crime scene without any connection to a perpetrator or a victim. It had been driving the Oklahoma City police nuts for weeks until they connected three bodies to it. When Denson had run the – what was it Dean called them? – the glyphs into the computer, the case had popped up. DNA comparisons were in the works at the moment, but the forensics folks were telling them that there was way too much blood around to have all come from one guy. He should have reports on his desk when he got back to the office, but everything pointed to more people getting damaged at those two sites than just Dean.

Haynes pulled up in front of him. Evidently she'd been waiting. "What kept you?" she asked as he climbed in on the passenger side.

"Dean was actually awake and he talked to me," he said, and her eyes widened.

"Any news?"

"Well, for one thing, we've got two more crime scenes to look for," Denson said. "You got anything for me?"

"Lead didn't pan out, but I got a call from the office. You turn your phone off?"

"Didn't want to be interrupted during the interview," Denson said, digging his phone out and turning it back on. "Why? What's up?"

"There are at least four different people represented by the blood types present in Oklahoma City, and five at the house in Graysville. And they think they've found the first body."

"You waiting for an invitation?" Denson asked when she didn't immediately elucidate.

"White male, between seventeen and twenty-five, dead at least a month."

"How are they linking it to our guy?"

"By the designs carved into the victim's chest and back. They match the ones we found on the doorways."

Denson blinked. "I wonder what that means," he muttered.

"He was also drained of blood."

Shaking his head, Denson glanced up at the hospital as she pulled away. What the hell goal did this demon wannabe have? And what part did Dean Winchester play in it?


	28. Chapter 28

Bobby walked back into the hospital room where John stood back away from the bed, watching his boys. Sam was talking quietly to Dean, who looked tense and unhappy. Bobby leaned closer to John and spoke in an undervoice. "You are aware that he could have taken exception to your reaction and raised a stink."

John grimaced and shrugged, shaking his head. "Is he going to?"

"I don't think so. He said he'd seen worse." John rolled his eyes and just kept gazing at his sons. Bobby pursed his lips. "He didn't do anything, John. I would have stopped him if Dean'd had any kind of adverse reaction."

"I know," John muttered. "Just, coming back to that . . . it was stupid. He's reacted that way to Sammy being gone before. I just kind of . . ."

"Lost control, yeah, I know." Bobby looked down at the floor, recalling the things he was going to have to tell John when Dean couldn't hear. "He asked about the Impala," he said after a moment.

John turned towards him, eyes lighting up. "He did?"

"He's looking forward to seeing her again."

"That sounds like my Dean," John said with a grin that, though faint, was relieved.

"Why don't we leave Sam with Dean and go prep the RV?" Bobby suggested.

Sam looked up. "RV?" he asked. They could both see that Dean had fallen asleep again.

"That's how we're getting back to Sioux Falls, Sam," Bobby said. "I'll leave the Chevelle here and drive the RV, you'll sit in back with Dean and your dad will drive the truck and give us a little more mobility when we need to get supplies and stuff. Trip will still take a while because we'll have to stop at night, but won't be more than a few days."

"What about your car, Bobby?" Sam asked. "You've had that thing for years." Bobby clearly heard the unspoken judgment there. If that hunk of junk didn't mean anything to him, he'd have gotten rid of it years ago. Sam didn't get cars the way Dean and John did.

"I figure I'll send someone back with the RV, since it has to be returned here, and they can drive the Chevelle back." Bobby glanced at John. "But right now I think we'd better get the thing stocked so that there'll be plenty of food and stuff. You need anything particular?"

"Dad knows what I like to eat, he makes fun of it often enough," Sam replied with a dry twist to his lips. He reached for a manila folder and opened it, pulling out a sheet of paper. "And here's a list of stuff that Dean needs to have. We'll pick up the prescriptions tomorrow, but if you guys could get the rest of it, that would be great."

"No problem, Sammy," John said, and Sam twitched an eyebrow upwards. "Call us if you think of anything else you need."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Sure, Dad." He picked up his book and started reading. Bobby led the way out of the hospital and out to the truck, but he could hear John close behind him the whole way.

"Let's head to the local Wal-Mart and get this done."

They got into the truck, John driving, and nothing was said for a time. After a couple of minutes, John cleared his throat. "Did he say anything new?"

Bobby grimaced, not sure they should be talking about this while John drove, but he knew John would keep asking if he didn't talk. "How could he not?" he asked. "He talked about it. He hasn't said word one about what happened to him. Everything we know, we got from Sam's dreams or Castiel."

"So he did talk to him? He did tell him things?" Bobby nodded. "Why hasn't he said anything to me? To you? To Sam?"

"Denson said he was masked, John. That wasn't the half of it. He might as well have been an automaton once he actually started talking about the time he spent with the demon."

"What else did he talk about?" John demanded.

"The night before he was taken," Bobby said. "He spent it with some girl."

"Beth, I talked to her," John said. "I know about her."

Bobby nodded. "He went to breakfast afterwards, and went back out to the car, and that's the last thing he remembers before waking up in that box thing Sam described." John's jaw tensed, but he didn't otherwise react. "According to Dean, the bastard used the box to transport him in, and he could never tell how long he'd been in it."

When Bobby didn't immediately continue, John glanced aside at him. "Well? What else?"

"They moved four times, Dean said, and he described the places they stayed." Bobby took a deep breath. "John, he says he was chained and naked the whole time, and that he never saw the sun, and, like we thought, food was kind of irregular."

"What the hell was it all for?" John asked rhetorically. "I can't buy that it was just torture for fun. There was way too much effort involved."

"I don't know, John. I can't begin to guess."

"Anything else?"

"Denson asked if there was anything sexual." John grew very still, and Bobby hastened to reassure him. "There wasn't, he said there wasn't, but his reaction was kind of weird. He started laughing, and said something about how he hadn't realized that things could have been worse." John just stared out the windshield without speaking. "You should know, though, he told Denson the demon's name, and warned him against going after him. He never said anything to make it sound like he was nuts, and actually said he thought the guy who had him was nuts, but Denson is going to be circulating that name to God knows what impact."

"Great," John muttered, and Bobby knew he was thinking hard. "I don't know if that's good or bad."

"I don't either, but it can't be helped now."

The parking lot of the Wal-Mart was pretty crowded and Bobby stared at the signs announcing the upcoming holiday as they walked in. "Hell, John, we already missed Thanksgiving. What are we going to do for Christmas?"

John shrugged. "We've never done much," he said. "What difference does it make?"

"Well, for one thing, you idjit, we've got something big to celebrate, don't you think?"

John came to a stop and turned to look at him. "I hadn't thought of it like that," he said, eyes wide. "Bobby, this is . . . this is the worst time of year for me. You know that, right?"

"Duh," Bobby retorted. "But, forgive me, I'm not thinking of you. I'm thinking of those two boys."

"Sam and Dean never gave a damn about holidays, Bobby."

"How would you know?" Bobby demanded. "I can tell you Dean did, and I'll wager that Sam did, too, what with his intense desire to be normal and all."

"How do you know how Dean feels about –"

"Because he came to me to celebrate it last year, John," Bobby said, his voice softening. "And we talked. Some. He still remembers the last real Thanksgiving you folks had, the last Christmas, back when he was three." The other shoppers were moving around them where they'd stopped in the middle of the entry way to the store. John seemed frozen by this revelation. Bobby grabbed his arm and got him moving again, taking the list from his hands. Some of it was purely medical in nature, no shock there. Bobby grabbed a cart and headed towards the pharmacy, keeping an eye out to make sure John stayed with him.

They picked up gauze and tape among other medical items, food for everyone, extra blankets and pillows, and clothes for Dean. Since the car had been emptied before they found it, Dean's possessions currently numbered one. The car. When they'd gotten just about everything they could need, John headed towards the sporting goods section.

"John, what are you doing?" Bobby asked in an undertone.

"Dean needs a shotgun," John replied just as quietly.

"You trying to kill him?"

"No, I'm trying to keep him safe," John said. "He needs to have a way to defend himself."

Bobby grabbed John's arm and pulled him to a stop. "He doesn't need to think he should partake in any fight that might come up, John. If he has a shotgun to hand and we get in trouble on the road, he's not going to stay quietly in the RV like he needs to."

"If something gets past us somehow, he needs to have a defense," John replied, his voice so throttled that it had to hurt.

"If something gets past the rest of us, is Dean really going to drop it with one shotgun blast?" Bobby asked skeptically. "And, I remind you, if he has a weapon, there won't be any need to 'get past' us. He'll be right there on the front lines, and someone will have to carry him if we wind up having to retreat."

John's face grew red with anger, then paled, and his expression underwent several changes, from pissed to alarmed to desperate. "I can't leave him defenseless, Bobby."

"There will be weapons all around the RV, John. He won't be defenseless. But if you hand him a shotgun and tell him it's his, he will think that means you expect him to participate in any fight that comes up. If you just let me let him know where there are weapons by telling Sam in front of him, it won't have the same impact."

A long, very tense moment followed this, and then John finally relaxed a little. "Fine. But Dean's not going to like it."

"So long as he's alive long enough to be annoyed, that's good with me," Bobby replied. "Let's pay for all this junk and start stowing it in the RV."

"We might as well leave it in the bags," John said. "Sam is guaranteed to rearrange it to suit himself. It'd be easier just to let him put it all away in the first place."

"If you say so," Bobby said. "We need anything else?"

John's phone started ringing, and he pulled it out of his pocket, looking at the readout. Flipping it open, he said, "Yeah, Sammy?" He listened for several seconds, his brows knitting. "Wait . . . a what-pod?"

Bobby blinked at him. "An iPod?" he asked.

John looked up at him, eyes wide. "An iPod?" he asked Sam. "What is that?" Bobby snorted, but John shook his head. "Sam, what . . . okay, okay." He held out the phone. "He wants to talk to you."

"Bobby, you know what an iPod is, don't you?"

"One of those music gizmos, right?"

"Well, that's a little better than Dad's total cluelessness. Would you help him pick one up for me?"

"Sure," Bobby said. "What do I look for?" Sam started talking, and Bobby got lost within the first few words. Finally, he shook his head. "Sam, just hold on a minute. Don't hang up."

"What . . . Bobby?" Bobby dropped the phone to his side without closing it. He grabbed John by the arm and headed towards the electronics section, dragging him along. Bobby could still hear Sam's voice coming out of the phone by his hip.

"What's going on, Bobby?" John demanded, pulling free but keeping pace nonetheless, pushing their cart.

Bobby didn't respond to either of them. The electronics section wasn't that far away. He walked straight up, John dropping back as he approached the counter where there was, fortunately, one free clerk. Bobby addressed the geeky looking kid. "Excuse me, I've got a friend who wants me to pick something up for him, but I don't have the foggiest idea what he's talking about." The kid blinked at him, and then Bobby thrust the phone at him. "Here, you figure it out."

Seeming more than a little astonished, the kid took the phone and lifted it gingerly to his ear. "Hello?" he said. For a moment, his eyes kept that puzzled look, but then he began to nod. When he started asking questions in Geek, Bobby relaxed his shoulders.

John walked up beside him. "Good solution," he said. "But what is this thing Sam wants?"

"It's some kind of music doohickey," Bobby said. "My guess is he wants it for Dean."

"Dean won't know what it is, either," John replied. "He hasn't even embraced CDs. There's still a box of . . ." John's eyes went wide, and his breath caught a little. "No, I guess there isn't."

"Not anymore," Bobby said. "Seriously, I'm betting this is for Dean."

The kid cleared his throat and Bobby looked up. He was holding out the phone. "Sam wants to talk to you again, sir," he said.

"Thanks." Bobby took the phone. "Sorry, Sam, I just thought that would get things done faster."

"Yeah, Bobby, that's fine," Sam said hurriedly. "Look, get Dad to pay for all the stuff Troy is putting together and tell him I'll pay him back, then bring it all to me here before you dump stuff at the RV."

"Sure, Sam," Bobby said. "See you soon." He closed the phone and handed it back to John, passing on the message as he did so.

"What's he going to pay me back with?" John asked. "He doesn't have a penny to his name." Nevertheless, John followed Troy up to the register and paid the astronomical sum the kid asked for. They headed up to the front and paid for the rest of the stuff, then showed their receipts to the old lady at the door.

"John, how are you going to pay for the medical bills?" he asked while they loaded all the stuff in the back of the truck. "I mean, they're all under your real names."

"I have no idea," John said. "The insurance I gave them has stood up to scrutiny so far, but I don't know how much longer that will last."

Bobby grimaced. It was a delicate question, and one he didn't have the answer to, either.

* * *

Sam had already negotiated internet access for himself in the hospital. When Dad dropped the iPod by, Sam immediately opened the package, registered it, and began downloading music to go on it. He knew exactly what Dean liked, he'd heard it all often enough throughout his childhood. If Dean had branched out at all, he didn't know, but given Dean's personality, it didn't seem all that likely. The hospital's connection was reasonably fast, but it still took a long time to download that amount of music.

"What are you doing, Sammy?"

Sam turned around and saw that Dean had woken up. "Not much. How are you feeling?"

"Great," Dean replied sarcastically. "I was thinking of going jogging."

"Not sure you want to do that," Sam said, and Dean raised his eyebrows. "I mean, all you have to wear is that hospital gown, and that might be a little more exposure than you want."

Dean laughed and then glared at him. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts."

"So, have you heard how we're traveling?"

"Yeah, Bobby rented some RV. I get to ride in the lap of luxury with my own private servant."

Sam laughed. "Dude, I am _not_ wearing a French maid's outfit."

Dean screwed up his face and then glared at Sam. "I told you not to make me laugh, Sammy!" he exclaimed. "God, the image, it makes me want to gouge my eyes out."

"Ha ha," Sam retorted. "I suggested flying you back with Bobby, but this will work better, I think." He wasn't prepared for how Dean's eyes widened or the panic he saw there. "Dean, what is it?"

"Nothing," Dean said, shaking his head and clearly trying to rid his expression of the alarm that still lurked there.

"It's not nothing, Dean," Sam said, growing concerned and moving his chair closer. "Dean, what's wrong?"

"Seriously, dude, it's nothing. I'm still freaking out over you in a maid's uniform."

Ordinarily, Sam would have let it go at that, but this was too weird a situation to accept that explanation. "Dean, are you in pain? Did I say something that reminded you of something? Are you –"

"Dude, enough!" Dean exclaimed. "I just didn't like . . . it doesn't matter."

Sam gazed at his brother as a new expression overtook the old one. When Sam identified it as embarrassment, he re-ran the conversation in his head, trying to find something that could explain embarrassment. "Is there something . . . do you have a problem with flying?" he asked.

Dean blinked at him. "I don't want to talk about it."

Clearly Sam had hit on the right answer, so he dropped the subject. Now was not the time for teasing Dean about being afraid of flying. He'd have to hold that in reserve for when his brother was feeling better. He cleared his throat and glanced back at the screen of his laptop behind him. The new iPod had finished its sync. Sam reached out and ejected it from iTunes and disconnected it from the computer. He turned back around with the iPod in his hands.

"What is that?" Dean asked.

"An iPod," Sam said, digging in the bag for the earbuds. "Best available. I figured you had to miss your music."

"Where are my tapes?" Dean asked, an anxious wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows.

Sam grimaced. "The car was cleared out completely, Dean," he said. "Unless there was one in the player, they're all gone."

Dean blinked at the ceiling, looking kind of lost. "Shit."

Sam held out the iPod. "Here, let me show you how this works."

Dean looked at it suspiciously, but he let Sam show him the basics of navigation. When he saw the list of songs, his eyes widened. "All of that is on this thing?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"And it's not even close to full," Sam said with a grin. "I didn't know what else I should get for you. I hit the basics, but we can get more for you later if you want."

Giving Sam a doubtful look, Dean put the earbuds in his ears and pressed play. Sam peered at the front of the iPod and saw that it was playing "Wherever I May Roam" by Metallica. Dean smiled beatifically and closed his eyes, sinking into the pillow. Sam sat back in his chair, satisfied. Dean might think it was weird, but he was glad to have it.


	29. Chapter 29

Sam watched his brother listening to his music, looking beatific, and reflected that once Dean was up to driving again, he would have to get him one of those transmitters that would broadcast the iPod's music to the radio.

The thought that Dean wasn't up to driving was a distressing one. Dad had given Dean the Impala on his eighteenth birthday, and from that day forward, Dean drove everywhere. Even if the three of them were all going to the same spot, Dean drove separately. Or, rarely, he drove Sam and their father. Dad had driven a truck then, too, but evidently he'd upgraded since that old Silverado.

It was weird. The Impala was the only home he'd ever known till he moved into the dorms, and both Dad and Dean had worked on cars for extra money forever. It all made cars an integral part of his life up until eighteen, yet he'd never owned any kind of motor vehicle. He'd never seen the need in Palo Alto, and Jessica . . .

He turned back to his computer. To avoid freaking his brother out, he wasn't researching Azazel, not in the hospital room. Not that online searches had proven much help. Unfortunately, it was a pretty broad spectrum of crap, from _The Exorcist_ on IMDb to scholarly texts on ancient Hebrew religious sacrifice. Sam didn't even really know where to start on figuring out the reality of him, so he was reading everything, hoping something would make sense – just not at the hospital. After all, he'd seen him more than once at this point, and he was the only one of them who had, apart from Castiel, who hadn't shown his face in several days. Sam knew that didn't mean he hadn't been around, but it did make it difficult to ask him questions.

A nurse walked in, Melinda today, and started checking on Dean's numbers. He opened his eyes at the sound of her footsteps and smiled up at her, but he didn't try to flirt, too focused on the music in his ears. That was a change. Even though Melinda had to be old enough to be their mother and carried a little extra weight around, Dean had flirted with her as gamely as he'd flirted with the young and pretty Maureen. She stopped by the side of the bed, clearly wanting to talk. Dean popped the earbuds out. "Nice iPod," she said. "How are you feeling?"

"Better now that I can listen to Metallica," he said, glancing at Sam briefly. "No real change, though. I think you guys got this thing licked."

Melinda smiled. "Glad to hear it. I'm going off shift in a half hour and Sandy's coming on. I probably won't see you again, so I thought I'd say good bye."

Dean grinned at her. "I will miss each and every one of you lovely ladies," he said. "Thank you for making my stay here . . . as pleasant as possible."

"You are an incorrigible flirt," she said.

"And you wouldn't have it any other way," Dean replied, twinkling at her. She rolled her eyes, rested a hand on one of his, then left the room. Sam gazed at his brother, shaking his head. Dean straightened up slightly. "What?" he asked defensively, though Sam hadn't said anything, and he didn't think there was that much judgment in his gaze.

"I just . . . you lay there in the ICU, bleeding, in pain, and you still had the energy to flirt with every woman there, and some of the men as I recall." Dean shrugged. "It just amazes me. That's the first thing to come back, I swear, the charm."

Dean grinned up at him. Sam recognized the mischievous glint in his eyes, so he was prepared for something outrageous. "So, you think I'm charming, do you, Sammy?"

"I think you're charming to strangers," Sam retorted, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, I think I charmed you a time or two," Dean said. "Like when I got you to come with me to see _Star Trek Generations_."

Sam snorted. "Okay, you've got me there."

"I didn't even have to bribe you, like I had to for _Undiscovered Country_."

"That movie sucked."

"Yeah," Dean admitted grudgingly. "Anyway, this thing is great." He waved the iPod around. "You got one of these?"

Sam shrugged. "Mine's fourth generation. Yours is fifth."

"What's the difference?" Dean asked, looking at it.

Sam tried to see it as his brother had to, as a slim, black plastic box of undetermined function. "Yours has sixty gigs and mine only . . ." Seeing Dean's eyes go kind of blank, Sam shook his head and rephrased. "Yours is twice as big as mine." As he spoke he pulled his out of his backpack.

Dean blinked at it. "Actually, yours is bigger, though the screen on mine is bigger."

"No, I don't mean physically," Sam said. "Yours holds twice as much music."

* * *

Dean looked down at the shiny black box and tried to imagine how exactly it stored things. Cassette tape he could understand, sort of. He could see it running through the machine, and he knew how to erase it. CDs were mysterious, but you could see the workings of them. He flipped the thing over and looked at its back. It didn't even open. "How many songs does it store?"

"Thousands," Sam said. "But you can also put video and image files on it, too."

Thousands of songs, and video, too. "Maybe you should have this one, then," Dean said, holding it out. "You listen to a lot more music than I do."

Sam shook his head, looking amused. "You can widen your horizons, Dean," he replied, tucking his iPod away.

Dean shrugged. "I guess, as long it's not that emo crap you listen to." Sam rolled his eyes. "Or have you grown up since the last time I heard your music?"

Sam gaped at him in outrage. "Grown up? I'll have you know that most of the people I met in college love my music."

"And college kids are called kids for a reason, Sammy," Dean said lazily, just to prick Sam's ego. "I heard it on a documentary, once. College is like an extended adolescence."

"Very funny, Dean," Sam groused. "Anyway, let me show you iTunes and how to download music."

"Isn't that illegal, Sammy?"

"Since when do you care?" Sam asked. "Besides, not on iTunes. You have to pay for it."

"Where's the fun in that?" Dean retorted, enjoying the bickering. Sammy being all conciliating and helpful felt unnatural. His brother had never been anything but a pain in the ass. Dean considered that statement, recalling a certain Christmas, a particular Fourth of July. Well, okay, he'd rarely been anything but a pain in the ass.

"Look, I just grabbed the music I knew you liked. There's probably stuff I missed. I mean, I hope there's stuff I missed." Sam shrugged and plopped his laptop on the over bed table. "Here, this is iTunes, and you can search for music by title, by artist, by genre –"

"Genre?" Dean repeated mockingly, and Sam flushed. "Isn't that just a fancy way of saying type?"

"Sort of," Sam replied.

"Then why not say type?"

"Because they call it genre on the site." Sam pointed, and Dean shrugged. He let Sam show him around the website, and he started looking at the music that was available. He started a few downloads and then started exploring a little, looking at the news. He didn't pay all that much attention to normal politics and stuff, but he'd been even more out of the loop than usual lately. "Another hurricane hit Louisiana after Katrina?" he exclaimed. "Am I reading this right?"

"Yup," Sam said, and Dean looked back at the story of death and devastation. To his surprise, Sam snorted, and he gave his brother a quizzical look. "I never thought about it this way, but Louisiana is going to have a ton of restless spirits over the next few years."

Dean blinked. "I hadn't thought about that either. It's kind of a weird thought."

Sam nodded, then he picked up a book and started pretending to read. Dean knew how fast his brother read, so he wasn't fooled when Sam stayed on the same page for like ten minutes. "What's up, Sammy?" he asked.

Dean reached out and made a grab for the book. Sam seemed to be ready for that, lifting to book out of his reach. Dean stuck his hand into the tote bag at Sammy's side and pulled a book out at random, opening it to the place marked. He held it up and read aloud. "'In his angelic form, Azazel was among the most beautiful . . ." He stumbled to a stop and turned the book over. _Legends of the Grigori_. "I thought you'd stopped this!" he growled, throwing it back at Sam.

"I stopped doing it where it could bother you," Sam said, shoving the book into his bag again and tucking it down deep. Scooting his chair closer, he leaned forward. "We have to know more about him to be able to defeat him."

Defeat him . . . Dean's throat went dry, his heart pounded, and he could hear the beeping speeding up. Sammy hadn't stopped his research when Dean had asked him to. Of course not, Sammy had never done what Dean asked him to do. Seeing that name – in print – in a book in his brother's possession – was enough to freak him out. Sammy wanted to learn how to fight Azazel. Just the thought of Sammy going up against . . . it didn't bear thinking about.

Sam took his hand and leaned over him. "It's okay, Dean. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. It's okay, you're safe, he's not here, and he's not coming." He kept babbling like that, but Dean couldn't think, couldn't calm, and he couldn't find the words to tell Sammy that he didn't blame him.

A nurse came running in, one of the ones he didn't know so well. Her name escaped him. He didn't know what she saw, but she immediately started giving orders, first telling Sammy to get out. Sammy argued with her, and Dean wanted to tell her that he didn't want his brother to go, but his voice still wasn't working. His hand was, so he hung on tight to the hand Sammy was holding. Things got a little confused there for a while, and then he heard a voice that he knew would solve everything.

"What's going on in here?" Dad demanded. A chaos of voices followed, quelled by a single word. "Sam?"

"Dean saw something in my book that alarmed him," Sam said. "I tried to calm him down, but this woman came in and raised a fuss."

"I came in to find him looming over my patient, and my patient deeply upset. I simply asked him to go."

"Don't want him to go," Dean managed finally.

Suddenly his father was on the other side from Sammy. "That's fine, son," he said, stroking Dean's head like he had years and years ago, when he'd had nightmares. It made him feel safe and about ten. "He's not going anywhere, Dean, and I'll be back in just a minute."

Dean started to reach for him as he went, but Bobby took his place and that felt safe enough. He relaxed back against the pillows and just tried to breathe as the room emptied of medical personnel.

* * *

"We need to have a word," John growled quietly at the nurse who had, in Sam's phrasing, raised a fuss. Pursing her lips, she led him out. "What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded sharply once they were out of the room with the door closed. There were a couple of orderlies on either side of them, but they melted away.

"My patient was upset, sir, and I was trying to remove the cause of that upset," the nurse said defensively.

" _Your patient_ is _my son_ ," John retorted, irritated beyond bearing by her dogmatic speech patterns. "And he can't be left alone."

"He's in a hospital, sir, that would hardly leave him alone," she replied sarcastically.

"Please ask your supervisor to come see me . . . Gretchen," John said, peering at her badge.

"No need, Mr. Winchester," said a voice behind him. John turned to include the newcomer in the conversation. "I'm Janice, and I'm the floor supervisor this shift. What seems to be the problem?"

Before John could formulate his complaint, Gretchen launched into her explanation. "The guest in room 308 was upsetting the patient, and when I asked him to leave he refused." Gesturing at John, she continued, "The patient's father seems to think that I should not have intervened."

"Was anyone else present in the patient's room?" Janice asked, and John began to bridle at this continued objectification of his son.

"No, but –"

"Thank you, Gretchen. We will discuss this later."

Unwillingly, the woman headed back towards the desk. "Mr. Winchester, I am sorry. Gretchen is new to the floor and I think she may have been less informed about your son Dean's needs than I would have wished her to be."

"Her fuss made things worse for Dean," John said. "I don't want her coming near him again."

Janice's eyes went distant briefly, and then she nodded. "I'll see that Laura is assigned to Dean for this evening, and since you're leaving us tomorrow, that should be it, right?" John nodded reluctantly. "I am sorry. Do you want me to check on Dean?"

"Please," John said, and she followed him into the room.

By that point, Dean had calmed considerably, and John was reassured when Janice told him that all his numbers were within expected parameters. John pulled a chair up and sat down. "You okay, boy?"

"I'll live," Dean said. "Humiliation isn't the trial it once was."

"You have nothing to feel humiliated for!" Sam said urgently, but John waved him back and he settled reluctantly into his chair.

"What's that you've got in your hand?" he asked.

"It's the i-thing that Sammy got for me," Dean said. "It rocks." He held it out in a shaking hand, but John just closed his hand over his son's, stilling the tremor.

"I'm glad you like it," he said. "Why don't you listen to some music and get some rest? Bobby and I have already loaded the RV ready for us all to get moving tomorrow."

"Thanks, Dad," Dean said. Glancing at Sam and Bobby, he put the little tiny earbuds in his ears and pressed something on the front of the doodad Sam had urged them to get. He relaxed against the pillows, and John blessed Sam for thinking of the thing. John hadn't even considered what effect familiar music might have on Dean.

"Sam, you take the recliner, Bobby, go back to the motel and get some sleep. I'll stay up with –"

"You and Bobby are going to be driving, Dad," Sam said. "I'll stay up with Dean. I can sleep in the RV tomorrow."

"He makes a good point, John," Bobby said. "Come on, let's both sack out at the motel. Sam's got it covered."

John turned reluctantly to follow Bobby out, but before they got further than out the door, Sam said, "Oh, and did either of you think to wash the bedding you guys bought today?"

John paused and turned back. "Wash it? It's brand new."

"And it needs washed before Dean uses it," Sam said.

"I'll swing it by a Laundromat in the morning," Bobby said. "Come on, John."

* * *

Sam drowsed in his chair, the book closed on his finger. Dean had fallen asleep to the sound of bands like Kansas and Styx. Not Sam's personal choice for soothing music, but to each his own. Sam had considered pulling the earbuds out, but had decided against it. Dean would undoubtedly wake up, and it would probably freak him out.

Tomorrow they'd be on the road again, and Sam was surprised by how much he was looking forward to that. Partly it was the undeniable pleasure of getting out of the damned hospital, but mostly it was just getting back to the familiar. It wouldn't be really familiar till it was either Dean or his dad driving the Impala, but on the road with his family pretty much covered Sam's entire life. Four years of stationary existence at Stanford hardly amounted to anything when put up against seventeen years of travel.

A commotion arose outside the room, and Sam sat up, glancing quickly at Dean to see if he'd woken up. His brother still slept soundly. Sam got up and went to the door, ready to pull it closed if it looked like the noise was going to last a while, but it was just a bunch of medical staff going by with someone on a gurney. Oddly, the patient looked like she was wearing scrubs. Someone shifted at just the right moment, and Sam realized that she was Gretchen. They were gone a moment later, and Sam went back to sit down. He hoped she hadn't had anything contagious, but being unwell could go a long way towards explaining her testy mood.

Returning to his seat, he checked on Dean again. It seemed strange for Dean to sleep through that much noise, but he had enough pain killer in his system to help him stay asleep once he managed to drop off. Sam settled back with his book and started reading again.

Around nine the next morning, Dad and Bobby showed up. Sam fell upon the cup of coffee Bobby offered him with gratitude, and they all stood back to watch the final round of checks the doctor wanted to do before releasing Dean into the world again. Once he proclaimed himself satisfied, the doctor left, and the nurse began detaching Dean from the monitors.

"Where are you going for . . . care . . . when you get where you're going?" Loretta asked, clearing editing out the word _treatment_ on the fly.

"Avera Heart Hospital," Bobby said. "Sioux Falls."

"Well, make sure you get them to expedite the request for Dean's records. His situation is a little unusual, and we don't want anyone to be caught flat-footed."

"Can we request for them to be sent ahead?" Sam asked.

"You'd have to check with Records for that," she replied.

Sam glanced at his dad and got a nod. He left the room and started following signs.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no real excuse for not posting this sooner except for feeling guilty for not having the sequels to this or Left Turn of Fate ready to start posting. Still don't, but I hope to have Azazel's Plan B Part 2 ready in the month or so.
> 
> Sorry again.

**Chapter 30**

Dean watched Sam go with some misgivings. He gave Bobby a look, and the older hunter tapped John on the shoulder and headed out to follow Sam. Dean found that reassuring. Sooner or later Sam was going to get pissed about his overprotectiveness, but he'd cross that bridge when he got to it. For now he was going to take advantage of everyone's worry about him.

It took a while to get all the machines and tubes disconnected and to get all the instructions and cautions. Apparently he needed to take it easy. Since he was pretty sure he couldn't take 'it' any other way, he didn't foresee any problems with following that rule. Add to that the fact that his father, brother and adoptive uncle weren't likely to leave him alone any time soon, and he wasn't going to have an opportunity to get himself into trouble that way.

Finally they were all done, and he was left alone with his father again. "Well, I don't think I want to leave in this outfit," he said, looking down at the hospital gown.

"I brought you something to put on," Dad said, picking up a duffel Dean hadn't noticed by the door. Dropping it on the bed, he unzipped it and pulled out a pair of briefs that Dean fell upon with joy. Underwear. Finally. Dean hopped down and sat on the chair to pull them on. Next thing his father handed him was a pair of sweats that Dean's eyes judged to be too small for him. Dubiously, he pulled them on and found that they fit with room to spare. "Here," Dad said, holding out a blue, long-sleeved t-shirt. Dean took it and dragged it on over his head. This was nuts. He was getting tired just getting dressed. A plaid flannel overshirt seemed to hang, tent-like, on his frame. He looked up to see his father pulling out a pair of socks and glanced down towards his feet. They seemed impossibly far away. Then his father knelt down and pulled Dean's left foot into his lap.

"What are you doing?" Dean demanded.

"Putting your socks on. I've done it before."

"Not since I was like two," Dean protested, but his father was not deterred. Dean didn't really feel up to jerking his foot out of his grasp, so he just glared.

"Actually, the last time I put socks on for you was in 1998, after that incident with the poltergeist in Indiana."

Dean grimaced. "Right." He thumped his head back against the wall behind the chair. "This is ridiculous."

"Nothing ridiculous about it, Dean," John said, pulling Dean's right foot onto his lap and repeating the process. "Stop sulking."

"I am not –" Dean broke off when he saw the grin on his father's lips. "What am I doing for shoes? I do not want you tying them every time I need to –" John pulled out a pair of elasticized Vans from the duffel and eased Dean's feet into them.

"There. All we need is for the orderly to come with your wheelchair, and we can see what's become of Sam and Bobby."

"I do not need a wheelchair."

"You do," John replied. "Not only is it hospital policy, but you're not in any condition to walk from here to the exit. It's quite a trek."

"I hate being this pathetic." When his father started to speak, Dean glared and pointed sternly at him. "And don't even try to tell me I'm not pathetic. I'm not stupid. I know just how useless I am at the moment, and I'm expecting you to help me get back into shape."

"When you're ready," John said. "Absolutely. But I'm also not going to let you damage yourself by trying too hard too quickly."

The door opened before Dean could protest further. A young woman came in pushing a wheelchair. She wore scrubs, and her red hair was neatly pulled back in a ponytail. "I'm Allison," she said. "Let's get you out of here, Mr. Winchester. I'm sure you're ready to get home."

"I don't really have a home," he said. "But I'll be glad to get to Bobby's." Once he was seated, she turned him around and they started down the halls.

"You know, miss," Dad said, "we're actually meeting my other son and the boys' uncle at the pharmacy. Why don't I take it from here? I'll leave the wheelchair with the front desk."

Dean couldn't even peer up to see what Allison was doing. "All right," she said after a moment, and then Dean heard her rubber-soled footsteps moving away. He started moving forward again and knew that his father was pushing. He relaxed against the back of the chair, only realizing then that he had been holding himself rigidly vertical.

"Do Sam and Bobby know we're meeting them at the pharmacy?" Dean asked.

A cell phone appeared in front of his face. "Call Bobby and tell him."

Dean took the phone and looked in the history to find Bobby's name. He pressed the button and lifted the phone to his ear. It rang twice, and then Bobby answered. "Yeah, John?"

"It's Dean," he said. "Dad wants you to meet us at the pharmacy."

"Sure. We're on our way there now."

"Cool. Bye." Dean closed the phone before he started babbling any inanities like _I'm wearing clothes_ or _Dad gave me underwear_. He held the phone tightly in his hand and wondered where his had wound up. Azazel had them, no doubt. That was disturbing, to think the demon could make crank phone calls that people would think came from Dean. Or that he had the whole collection of stored phone numbers Dean had gathered over the years. Which would include all the girls he'd met. That could be bad. On the other hand, he'd probably just thrown all Dean's crap away. That thought hurt more than a little. His tapes, his clothes, his weapons . . . everything but the necklace. His hand crept up and pulled it out of his shirt, closing around it. He felt a tickle on his cheek and reached up to brush whatever it was away. That was when he realized he was crying.

Bending his head, he shielded his face with his hand so that passersby wouldn't see him weeping like some pathetic wuss.

"Dean, are you okay?"

"Fine," Dean said, wiping at his eyes and struggling to control himself. "Just got something in my eye." His father didn't respond, but Dean knew that he hadn't fooled him, which meant that John knew just how pathetic Dean really was. Dean clenched his fists and kept his emotions on a tight leash.

They reached the pharmacy to find Sam and Bobby waiting in line. Dad parked Dean by a pair of untenanted seats, dropped the duffel on the one next to Dean and walked over to join them. He and Bobby talked for a minute, then Bobby left the room, giving Dean's shoulder a gentle squeeze on his way out. Dad and Sam stood together in line, talking, and Dean felt a brief moment of disorientation. His father and his brother hadn't stood alone together like that without arguing for years. The last few months they'd spent together as a family, Dad and Sam had barely been able to be civil for five minutes together. Weirdly, they hadn't seemed to be able to stay apart, though. Dean had suggested more than once that Sammy ride with him, but Dad had always insisted on keeping him close. And though Dean had expected otherwise, Sammy got pissed at him for interfering more often than not.

Yet there they stood, talking calmly. It kind of freaked him out.

They got to the window, Sam picked up the prescriptions, and they both walked back to Dean. "Where'd Bobby go?" Dean asked.

"To bring the RV around front," Dad said. "So we won't have to wait out in the cold. Sammy, grab the duffel, would you?"

"Sam, Dad." Sammy picked up the duffel and shouldered it. "It's Sam."

Okay, so some things never changed. Dean would know that Sam was less worried about him when his brother started bitching about him calling him Sammy. Out in the lobby, Dad stopped and took the duffel from Sam. He pulled out a heavy jacket and said, "Okay, Dean, put this on."

Dean scooted forward slightly in the chair and started to shrug into the coat. The sleeping pain woke up indescribably, making him hiss and freeze. His father helped him the rest of the way into the thing and then Sam started doing it up. "Sammy!" Dean smacked his hands away. "I can button," he growled.

Sam backed off, looking embarrassed, and they made their way out the front doors. The chill outside made the need for the jacket apparent. That was also disorienting. The last weather Dean remembered was in Nebraska in early September. Cool in the morning, hot in the afternoon. Now it was cold, though not as cold as it would be in Nebraska in mid-December.

A moderate-sized motor home idled at the end of the walk. Dad pushed Dean straight for it, and Sam walked ahead to open the door. When the chair came to a stop no more than two feet away from the base of the steps, Dean gazed up at it. It just seemed so high.

"Come on, Dean," Sam said. "Let me help you up the steps."

"Let me set the brakes," Dad said, and then he hurried around and up the stairs. "Okay, Sammy, get him on his feet and then hand him up to me."

"I can manage three steps," Dean groused. He put his hands on the arms of the chair and tried to shove himself up, but the healing scars on his back protested.

Sam shook his head. "Sit back, Dean. We've practiced this."

Dean sighed and let Sam help him out of the chair. Then, gripping the handrails on either side of the steps, Dean started hauling himself up, Sam behind him and his father there to help him the rest of the way if he got stuck. Then Bobby appeared over John's shoulder, and Dean began to feel like a baby walking for the first time. When he finally reached the top, he staggered a little, and his father slipped an arm around him. The pressure on his back hurt, but he did his best not to let on as his father guided him across the middle of the motor home and helped him to sit down on a sofa thing. When he looked up to find them all gazing down at him anxiously, he clapped his hands and grinned. "Let's get this show on the road."

"Yeah," Bobby said, and both Dad and Sam jumped. "John, I'll drop you at your truck. Sam, why don't you get Dean into the back room."

Dean blinked. "Back room?"

"Well, you're not going to be able to sit up for any length of time, so I figured you could sack out on the bed back there."

"What about right here?" Dean asked. "Get me a couple of pillows and I can recline right here."

Dad reached into a cupboard and pulled out a couple of pillows still in their plastic wrap, then thrust them at Sam. "Bobby put the sheets and stuff on the bed in back. Go get some pillowcases."

Dean fully expected Sam to blow up at that peremptory command, but he didn't. He just nodded and made his way back through the RV.

"Guys, I gotta get moving," Bobby called in a voice that carried to the back of the RV, and maybe beyond. "You all okay with that?"

"Go for it, Bobby," Sam called back, and Dad settled in the co-pilot's chair.

"I'm good," Dean said. The heat in the motor home clearly hadn't been on very long, and Dean felt more than a little chill. He hoped it would warm up in here before he had to ask for a blanket or something embarrassing like that. Everyone was already doing enough for him.

Sam emerged at that moment with the two pillows, already covered with dark green pillowcases, and something else, folded up over his arm. "Okay, Dean, let's get you situated," he said. "Maybe I should lie the bed out flat for you."

"It's good as it is, Sammy," Dean said. Sam shrugged and put the pillows against the cupboards so that Dean could lean back against them while facing front. Dean shifted carefully sideways and brought his legs up onto the couch, sinking into the pillows with a sigh of relief. Sitting up for very long really was uncomfortable. Once he was lying back, Sam took the thing over his arm and shook it out to reveal a blanket which he tucked over Dean without even asking. Then he sat down in the swivel chair opposite where Dean was lying. He let out a yawn fit to split his head in two, and Dean narrowed his eyes. "When did you last sleep, Sammy?"

"I napped a little last night," Sam said. "Don't worry about it."

"Dad!" Dean called. "I think Sammy needs to get some sleep."

"What?" His father peered around the seat in a vain attempt to see Sammy. "Sam, you said you'd sleep in the RV today."

"No, I said I _could_ sleep in the RV today," Sam retorted.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" Dad asked.

"Not really," Sammy said reluctantly.

"He can go to bed once we're on the road," Bobby interjected. "I've got some stuff to show him first, remember?"

"Right." John turned back around to face the windshield again.

"Show me what?" Sam asked.

"Just a minute, kid," Bobby said. "I'm going to park real fast and then we can get to it."

Sam shook his head, looking slightly anxious. "What are you talking about?"

"Hush up, Sam," Dean said. "I'm sure it's no big deal."

Bobby pulled up at the edge of the parking lot and turned the motor home off. "All right." He got up and walked down to lean up against the driver's seat, gazing down at Sam. "I haven't put much of anything away, yet, because your dad told me you'd just rearrange everything anyway."

Sam's eyes widened with something like outrage, but Dean let out a bark of laughter. "That is so true!" he exclaimed. Sam turned his glare on him. "Seriously, Sammy. You used to try to organize my bags when we were kids till I broke you of it. You like things tidy, and you like them your way."

"Yeah, well, you used to mess up my stuff just to annoy me," Sam said. "So I think we're even." His brow wrinkled. "Wait, Bobby, that's not what you wanted to show me, is it?"

"Nope. I put a few things away, and so did your daddy," he said. Then he started walking through the motor home, pointing out all the places where weapons and supplies had been stowed. Guns, knives, salt flasks, holy water, the whole nine yards. Both Dean and Sam watched attentively, though Dean felt a quiver of unease at the thought of needing any of the stuff.

"Now, Dean, I know you don't really want to get back in bed, but the TV's back there. It has a DVD player, and I picked up a bunch of DVDs so you'd have something to watch."

"DVDs?" Dean repeated, blinking.

"Yeah, I figured you could watch movies while we travel."

"You know, Bobby, I think I'd really rather just look at the scenery," Dean said, looking out the window. It was just a parking lot full of cars, but it was the world, something he'd lost for two solid months.

Bobby looked at him for a moment, then nodded, comprehension lighting up his eyes. "Sure, Dean. Just let me know if you get uncomfortable."

The rest of them disappeared into the back room, and Dean just gazed out the window. Two women walked by, and Dean watched them walk up to a nearby car, chatting. They looked ordinary, just a couple of normal girls in their twenties, and he sighed. They were beautiful. Everything was beautiful. Hell, even the leaden gray sky was beautiful.

Bobby and Dad came out of the back room alone. "Sammy taking a nap?" he asked.

Dad snorted. "Sammy is sorting things out. He promised to go to bed once everything is squared away."

Dean nodded. "So, you're driving the truck?"

"Yup. Bobby and I will keep in touch by cell phone."

Dean watched his dad go down the steps and out of the RV while Bobby settled himself in the seat. Bobby cranked the engine up and Dean watched the parking lot go by as they began to move. Sam came out of the back room with a couple of plastic Wal-Mart bags in each hand and started putting things away. When he put a couple of things in the cupboards above Dean's head, he stopped and Dean tore his eyes away from the window to glance up at his brother. "What?"

"You need something to drink," Sam said. He walked over to the refrigerator, further down the RV, and walked back carrying a squarish plastic bottle.

Dean took it and looked at it with disfavor. "A smoothie, Sam? Seriously?"

"It's good for you."

"I want a beer."

"No beer smoothies yet," Sam said.

Dean grimaced and glared. "You wouldn't put beer in a smoothie, would you?"

"It could work," Sam replied, tilting his head thoughtfully. "But not right now. Drink up."

"I am not a rabbit, Sammy."

"You're not going to be able to rebuild muscle on a diet of beer and corn chips," Sam said.

"Drink it, Dean," Bobby called from the front seat, "or we're both going to have to listen to a lecture on nutrition." Sam shot an annoyed glare in Bobby's direction, but Dean opened up the smoothie and started drinking. It tasted surprisingly good, with hints of banana, strawberry and melon.

He gave his brother a dark look nonetheless. "I'm only agreeing under protest and for Bobby's mental health."

"I don't care," Sam said. "Just drink it." He deposited a baggie full of carrot sticks and broccoli flowerets on Dean's lap and put a little cup of ranch dressing into the cup holder in the sill of the window. "Eat up."

"Did I not just say that I'm not a rabbit?" Dean protested, looking at the green and orange pile. "I thought I did."

"You did," Bobby replied, sounding amused.

"If you drink that," Sam pointed at the smoothie, "and eat those, you'll get a treat."

Dean rolled his eyes and held out the baggie towards Sam. "I am not ten."

"Cherry pie," Sam said, and Dean blinked at him. "With ice cream."

"It's a motor home," Dean retorted. "You can't hide it from me."

Sam shrugged. "But you can't wrestle me for it," he said, crossing his arms and grinning down at Dean.

Dean saw the truth of that and grimaced. Dropping the bag back into his lap, Dean plucked out a carrot stick and crunched down on it. "Fine."

Sam grinned and went back to putting things away. Dean munched and drank, and watched out the window while they got on the highway headed west.

Months had gone by with the world out of his view, and now it unrolled like a panorama before him, the open road, buildings and parks and people. So many people. The densely populated cityscape gave way gradually to the countryside interrupted by small towns. It wasn't just beautiful. It was glorious.

_This is the end of Part 1 – Family_


End file.
